


Love in WindClan

by Aeraki, AkitsuneLune, Pondfrost (AkitsuneLune)



Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: Eros - Freeform, F/M, Greek Concepts of Love in WindClan, Ludus - Freeform, M/M, Mania, Philia - Freeform, philautia, pragma, storge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29133576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aeraki/pseuds/Aeraki, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkitsuneLune/pseuds/AkitsuneLune, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkitsuneLune/pseuds/Pondfrost
Summary: I. He, the moth, gives himself up to burn. II. Their love begins slowly. III. But he's not the same, either. IV. She thinks she never will. V. But even so, she grows to love him. VI. Never again, he vows. She is the first of three. VII. He doesn’t understand. VIII. It is inevitable.
Relationships: Ashfoot/Deadfoot (Warriors), Breezepelt & Nightcloud, Breezepelt/Heathertail (Warriors), Crowfeather/Feathertail (Warriors), Crowfeather/Leafpool (Warriors), Heathertail/Lionblaze (Warriors), Onewhisker/Smoke (Warriors), Palebird/Sandgorse (Warriors), Palebird/Woollytail (Warriors), Shattered Ice & Jackdaw's Cry (Warriors)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 34





	1. EROS

**I. EROS**

Onewhisker has always been reckless— _too_ reckless. It's something he had constantly been scolded for as an apprentice. He'd figure out a way to do something, and he'd keep doing it, no matter the cost.

Maybe that's why he spends his nights sneaking into Twolegplace to meet Smoke.

The stones of the path are cold against the pads of his feet, the sun-heat long gone. He turns right, then takes two lefts, and one right again.

He waits in front of a little blue house—the only one there of its kind. Onewhisker has always thought it matches the eyes of his lover—a lovely shade he thinks matches the green-leaf sky.

He isn't alone long. Soon enough, Smoke emerges from the window of her Twoleg-nest.

"You'll never guess what happened today," Onewhisker says, puffing out his chest in a false bravado.

Smoke purrs, looking instantly enthralled. "Oh?" she asks. "Tell me, my strong warrior."

His mind briefly wanders to Whitetail, his WindClan mate, who is faithful and beautiful and everything he could ever wish for. But he shakes away all thought of her; she has no place here, in the forbidden Twolegplace.

Smoke is bold and intoxicating and she draws him in like a moth to her flame.

He, the moth, gives himself up to burn.

**EROS**

Smoke grooms his ruffled pelt with shaky movements, her sides still heaving with every breath. "That was a good story," she says between each rasp of her tongue.

Onewhisker gives a mumbled agreement before turning his face towards the sky, narrowing his eyes against the darkness. "I have to go soon," he sighs regretfully. "I've got dawn patrol, and I must be off to fulfill my warrior duties." He stretches his paws out, twists to clean her scent off every fur of his pelt.

She nods, though she makes little effort to conceal the disappointment on her face. "Again in two nights' time, my warrior?"

He inclines his head towards her in a show of sincerity. "I'm afraid I won't be able to return again," he says.

They both know that is a lie.

**EROS**

One night, staring into Smoke's blue eyes, he cries out _Whitetail_ in lieu of _Smoke._ She doesn't know who Whitetail is, and he doesn't tell her. Afterwards, neither of them speak of _her_ or the incident. Saying her name is an unspoken boundary neither of them dare cross.

Smoke falls asleep quickly, but he is tense and flushed with embarrassment and fear. _What if she found out I had a mate already? What if she asks too many questions?_

Onewhisker doesn't want to sleep in any place but besides Whitetail, all of a sudden. He disentangles himself from Smoke, who doesn't stir, and shakes out his pelt resolutely.

He goes back to WindClan that night, and there is a small pang in his chest as he sees Whitetail sleeping alone in their shared nest. Her tail rests over her swollen belly.

He curls in beside her, and she raises her head sleepily. "Where'd you go?" she murmurs, blue eyes half-open.

Onewhisker strokes his tail over her spine until she relaxes more, and he reassures her with, "Just to the dirtplace. Don't worry, my love."

The lie slips easily through his teeth, and for a one hot, fleeting moment, he resents everything about his double life.

He doesn't deserve Whitetail in the slightest, not really—but he's too selfish to let her go.

His mate shifts slightly. "Onewhisker?" she mumbles. He's worried for a moment, until she follows up the beat of silence with, "Stay with me, this time?"

_It would ruin everything if she knew,_ he thinks immediately. _Whitetail would never trust me again—she'd never let me near the kits._ But a heartbeat later, he realizes, _It's already ruined… I'm just waiting on borrowed time for her to find out._

Whitetail is smart—he knows that. She's one of the most brilliant warriors in WindClan, after all. She'll catch on to his nightly activities soon enough, and if he keeps meeting Smoke…

That is the moment Onewhisker decides he must stop fanning Smoke's flame. If only, he tells himself, to save his future with Whitetail.

**EROS**

It's nearly two moons later, and Onewhisker has nearly put Smoke out of his mind completely. He dips his head to Mudclaw; tells him that he is going out hunting on his own.

He's chasing a rabbit, and it's disappeared behind the sprigs of a heather bush when a small shadow falls over him.

Smoke stands there behind the heather, and looks him over, eyes narrowed slightly. His stomach drops into his paws. "I'm expecting your kits," she tells him bluntly, with no prologue. He looks over her overly-plump body; acknowledges the statement with a flick of his ear, and says,

"What does that have to do with me?"

He's a fairly respected warrior, now, and he thinks, for a moment, of Whitetail and their young daughter resting in the nursery. _Kits with Smoke were never part of the plan,_ he tells himself, as a way to soften the blow of his own words. _Whitetail can't know about this. Heatherkit can't know about this._

His excuse makes his skin itch uncomfortably. Maybe— _maybe_ he's just trying to settle the uncomfortable feeling lodged in the pit of his stomach. _This doesn't matter. It was just a fling._

"I want to join WindClan." It's a bold statement—even from Smoke, and Onewhisker works to keep his face as neutral as he can.

He looks at her— _really_ looks at her—and realizes the only things she knows about Clan life are from the stories he's told her. Onewhisker avoids her expectant gaze. _I should have known this would come back to hurt me. She doesn't know about the cold leaf-bares, or greencough, or battle, or the lack of prey._

The uncomfortable feeling grows even stronger. He wants to squirm, but finds his paws frozen to the ground.

Smoke is plump and well taken care of, even for a kittypet. He doubts that she _or_ whatever kittens she had could survive for long in WindClan. _They would never be able to survive out here. They would resent me for it, for the rest of their lives._

He straightens up, and without any sugar-coating, tells her to go back to her Twolegs. He says that they will be able to take care of her better than he can. He doesn't elaborate further. There's a twinge of doubt in the back of his mind, but Onewhisker shoves it away.

Smoke glares at him, but turns anyways, lashing her tail behind her. "I hope you're happy with yourself, Onewhisker," she tells him, voice suddenly ice-sharp. "I won't forget this, and neither will my kits."

It stings, in a way he doesn't think he should get to feel. _I've done too much for me to feel hurt. I deserve it._ She's never been angry at him before—only adoring. Onewhisker tells himself to put it out of his mind. It was only that she was upset, and this would be the end of it.

_I choose Whitetail and Heatherkit._

Onewhisker tells himself he is saving her from a harsh life, instead of protecting his own interests.

They both know it is a lie.


	2. PRAGMA

**II. PRAGMA**

Their love begins slowly.

It doesn’t surprise him; he’s limping there with his damaged front paw, and she tires herself out so much in training every day that he’s surprised she has the energy to curl her tail over her nose in her nest at night, let alone be dazzled by his bright blue eyes.

Dazzling is not the word he would use to describe their wooing.

Inevitable, maybe. In the best possible way, he is quick to think. Ashpaw is sharp as a fox, whipping past him like the breeze is under her paws, even as Talltail yowls for him to chase her. Appledawn is a better mentor, Deadpaw thinks. That, or Windstar herself has been training Ashpaw in her dreams; it’s the only explanation for the blur of gray that Ashpaw becomes in movement.

He doesn’t mind limping along behind. In her case, at least he knows that no cat in WindClan can keep up, so it doesn’t sting that he can’t either.

Yes, their love is inevitable, in a slow, aching, familiar way. Like the piece of prey that waits for him after a long day of training. He’ll meet Ashpaw’s gaze over the pile and make some clever comment that she’ll snort derisively at even though her yellow eyes flash with amusement. Morningpaw will nudge him and purr and he’ll furiously deny it. Only friends.

And it’s true, for a while. But he knows that he doesn’t want it to stay that way between them. He’s a romantic, Morningpaw has that much right. Hickorynose still brings Meadowslip the best bit off the fresh-kill pile and picks the stray heather out of her fur while the old queen tells more kits the story of Talltail plucking the hawk out of the sky to save his young siblings, again. Deadpaw wants stories to tell kits someday too. He wants  _ kits _ , end of sentence.

The only cat in Deadpaw’s life that doesn’t seem interested in Deadpaw’s hawk-sized crush on Ashpaw is Talltail. Talltail is brisk, stern, and keeps him in line. He doesn’t ask when Deadpaw’s eyes are sparkling through training (Ashpaw moved her nest next to his because of a den leak) or why Deadpaw’s suddenly faster (Ashpaw showed him how to streamline his tail and he wants to prove he was listening). Talltail is interested in hunting, fighting, keeping their borders marked, and getting Deadpaw his warrior name.

The only time Deadpaw ever thinks otherwise was when one night, he saw Talltail’s misty gaze cast far over WindClan’s rolling moors, toward the darkness of no-Clan’s territory. Deadpaw couldn’t sleep after wrenching his shoulder the day before and Barkface was hoarding all the soft moss anyway, so he’d come to keep his mentor company guarding the camp. When he saw the look in Talltail’s eyes, he turned around and went to lie back down, under the stars.

It convinced him that Talltail has some kind of juicy past, but he doesn’t pry. He knows from Morningpaw’s incessant pestering that it wears old quickly. He loves his tortoiseshell denmate (if she is to be his sister-by-mate, he has to) but sometimes he wishes she wouldn’t hurry them along. The best things take time.

Heatherstar or Talltail decides that Deadpaw will train for longer. He doesn’t know which and he doesn’t care to know; it stings as usual, another reminder that he is not a normal case, but he comforts himself with that thought.  _ The best things take time. _ And it gives him time to perfect his form.

He won’t be faster than Ashpaw, he decides. He can’t be; nothing on four legs can, he’s pretty sure. But he’ll be stronger. He has the fine, broad shoulders of a tunneler, even if the art is being buried alongside those underground systems. He will use them to shoulder Ashpaw off her paws even as she twists like a gray snake, staying on his bad side. He appreciates that, somehow. Morningpaw always sticks to his right, trying to be courteous maybe. But whatever fleabag ShadowClan sends their way next won’t, and Ashpaw knows it.

Eventually, he flips her with her own momentum. He waits for her to charge, he gets low and spreads his paws, and then flips her like a mouse. She wriggles away, but there’s a gleam in Talltail’s eyes when the mentors say stop. He passes his assessment the next morning.

The three of them are made warriors together, like it should be. Pigeonspot and Sorrelstorm go on ahead, like they always have when he lay in Barkface’s den as a kit, or waiting for his ceremony and watching them with their mentors, his heart pierced with jealousy. Ashpaw and Morningpaw do not go on without him. They’re beside him, just as strong and capable.

Morningpaw becomes Morningflower, which does not surprise him. Heatherstar doesn’t favour showy names, and Morningflower’s fine tortoiseshell fur is an obvious indication of a lovely, gentle name. That morning, she is especially radiant; gleaming in the sunshine and her amber eyes glowing with the greatest thrill an apprentice can have. She draws appreciative looks from many toms.  _ She will choose Cloudrunner, _ Deadpaw already knows.

Ashpaw is next. She is not beautiful like her sister, or at least not in the same way. Morningflower is dew and daffodils, and Ashpaw is a stormcloud made of hard, muscled lines and flashing yellow eyes, like lightning. Deadpaw is still knocked flat when he sees her carefully lick a paw and run it over her ears. She huffs when she sees him staring, but it’s not a joke to him, not anymore.

Heatherstar names her Ashfoot. He can’t help but agreeing; she is as quick as a fire going out, ash fluttering in the wind, a thousand other comparisons that if he voices aloud, Morningflower will tease him about forever.

It’s not until he steps up to the Tallrock that he realizes something.  _ She will not name me Deadbird or something wretched like that. Deadpaw is for my foot. So… _

“We match!”

Deadfoot is delighted. Ashfoot finally purrs, a glorious rumble of thunder that lights warmth in his chest that he has never felt. She meets his gaze, not shy or licking her chest self-consciously like he suddenly has the impulse to; just levels that warm yellow gaze at him and waits for something.

He isn’t sure what to say.

Morningflower interrupts them, nearly bouncing with joy. “We’re warriors! Oh, the  _ power! _ ”

“Getting a little bloodthirsty, there?” Deadfoot teases, and shoves her just to do something that doesn’t involve his pelt burning up from Ashfoot’s gaze. But his eyes flick back to her just as quickly, because he’s never been able to help himself and a warrior name doesn’t seem to be changing that. “How do  _ you _ feel, Ash _ foot _ ?”

“No different,” she answers plainly, as usual, but then tacks on, “Dead _ foot _ .”

_ The more things change, _ he thinks, but he is pleased.

He works up the courage to tell her on a warm green-leaf night. The sharp wind that scours the moors has eased up for once. Mosquitoes hum at the edge of his senses, but he tunes them out as he seeks Ashfoot out. The sun is just setting when he finds her, outside the gorse tunnel. She’s watching the moors.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, settling down next to her with his paws tucked under his chest.

She doesn’t lower herself down from her alert seat on the ground, just flicks her tail and answers, “The grass.”

He looks out at the long yellow stalks that grow like golden fur from the earth, but sees nothing spectacular in them. “What about it?”

“Look,” is all she says, and he does. They sit silently for a long time, and Deadfoot begins to lose his nerve.  _ Perhaps it’s not the best time, _ he thinks.  _ The best things take time, don’t they? _ But they have waited a long, long time. Since they were kits.

That’s when he sees it. It starts with a ripple, at first, just the barest flickering of movement in the furthest divot of the moor, then it spreads until it’s like a massive wave, through all the grass that has turned bright gold in the last rays of the sun. The hiss of the grass in the breeze ruffles the fur in his ears, and it washes over him, bringing a much needed moment of peace.

He exhales.

“I love you, Ashfoot, I just wanted to tell you,” he says, the words sounding like they’re not even coming from him at all. He’s imagined saying it so many times that when he finally does, it’s like a thousand little Deadfoots are chorusing along.  _ We love you. _ Hopkit, that saw the self-important, tottering little gray tabby that waltzed into the medicine cat den to find out what all the fuss was about and decided he would like to have kits with her one day. Deadpaw that felt the most accomplishment in his entire apprenticeship when he beat her, all the more when she kept up a good humour through his gloating. Deadfoot, the promising young WindClan warrior, former apprentice of the deputy, and the absolute sappy fool that felt like he was going to cry if the she-cat he was padding after didn’t love him back.

“I—I thought so,” Ashfoot says.

He is nonplussed. Mind blank. What kind of answer is that? He flinches away.  _ Did I wait too long? Is there another tom? Or does she just not like me? _ He regrets it now, teasing her and gloating about winning and ever thinking she was self-important when every shred of value that she sees in herself, he sees too—

He waits for her to say more. She doesn’t, just keeps watching the grass. He gets up quickly and limps off.

She wakes him the next morning for patrol. He has never been told he’s on a sun-up patrol the same way since, because she says;

“Talltail wants you on Wrenflight’s patrol to the RiverClan border,” she tells him, thin gray tail whisking over the floor. Then she adds, “I love you.”   
  


He has never been a morning-tom, and he didn’t get much sleep last night anyway, but it’s like the gentle, golden breeze is blowing through him now, rippling through his weary muscles and infusing them with joy and hope. He knows he is not dreaming; she woke him up.

“I—” Now he is the one stammering. She blinks once, luminous yellow eyes holding his tongue captive for a heartbeat, then turns and leaves the den with the same efficiency that used to beat him as an apprentice, organize him as a warrior, confess her love to him…?  _ That last part is real? _

He cannot believe it. He feels fast enough to beat her this time, perhaps. Wrenflight stares at him when he dances out of camp, as hare-brained as the oldest elder and blindly cheerful as a kit. He nearly falls in the gorge, but that cannot put a damper on his mood. Ashfoot loves him.

Moons later, as his eyes are soft regarding Sorrelstorm and Doespring’s only kit, a little brown tom they named Onekit, Ashfoot drops a lapwing beside him unceremoniously. This is her way, though; she has difficulty saying things sometimes, he knows, and he’s learned to hear the words in her actions. She settles down beside him.

“Kits…” he says thoughtfully, wondering if her ability to pick up on his thoughts will be on or off today.

  
“There’s just one,” she tells him.

He darts a look at her and still cannot quite tell if she is teasing. “He’s as cute as a whole litter. Then again, all kits are cute.”

“Do you want to mentor him?” Ashfoot asks, chewing on the lapwing. He gets a bite in quickly before she finishes off the fresh-kill she brought him.

_ And she’s gone in the opposite direction _ . “Er… maybe.”

Ashfoot swallows her bite of lapwing and then says, “We should have kits.”

Mercifully, Deadfoot has not bitten off a mouthful yet, because he would have choked. Instead, he just coughs a little to clear the saliva that he inhaled and says, “Oh!”

Ashfoot nods. “Yes, it would be good for WindClan. We need some new warriors. Apparently RiverClan has a new deputy, some flashy, young tom with an odd jaw.”

_ Crookedjaw. _ Deadfoot has heard of him, felt a little kinship toward the handsome tom and his name, but he won’t let Ashfoot go so quickly. “But—we—”

She looks at him like  _ he’s  _ behaving oddly. “Yes?”

“You really want to have kits?” he asks, needing to make sure he didn’t hallucinate.

She blinks. “Yes, of course. I will teach them how to run and fight and you can teach them how to talk to other cats,” she suggests. “I think any cat with our combination of skills would make a formidable warrior for WindClan.”

He can’t help himself; he snuggles into her side and gives her ear an affectionate lick. “You’re an oddball.”

She shrugs. “Yes.”

“I love you,” he says.

She huffs a little and nudges the half-eaten lapwing closer to him. “Eat some fresh-kill.”

**PRAGMA**

Ashfoot is not a sentimental cat. She cannot really afford to be.

Tonight, though, as the storms gather, she thinks that they are the precise colour of Downkit’s pelt. She remembers her daughter’s deep, deep gray pelt. Eaglekit and Hillkit bore her mate’s black fur, but her daughter had just a hint of charcoal-gray like her mother. It was most of her, really; the three of them were no more than scraps of fur that Ashfoot rounded up, hurried into the dark, stinking tunnels.

Scraps of fur that she laid into the dirt a few moons later. Deadfoot’s eyes glistened with grief. He bowed his head. He let out a soft wail for his weak kits as their faint heartbeats became sluggish, then stopped entirely. Ashfoot has not figured out how to grieve the way her Clanmates expect.

She does not lean on her family for support. She does not bury her wet eyes in her mate’s fur. She tilts her chin up toward the stars and wonders why, and then she carries on. Her milk hasn’t dried when she throws herself back into the duties of the Clan. She patrols relentlessly, even when their territory is infested with rats and disease. She hunts, even when all there is to find is more scraps. There is hardly any colour left, only the gray and black of her kits and mate.

The first glimmer of colour returns in the form of a ginger tom at their ‘camp’. Tallstar’s eyes flash when he sees him, but Ashfoot cannot guess why. She doesn’t possess the same skill of drawing conclusions from the barest twitches of her Clanmates that her mate does. Whatever that glimmer means, they are returned to their territory within the moon.

The heather still seems awash in gray, though; the colour is not back. She catches glimpses, occasionally, in the setting sun or the red feather on a blackbird. The colour that remains, that never left, is the blue of her mate’s eyes. She does not know the word for his eyes; he has the range of poetic comparisons always ready to spill out of him in their tender moments of silence, not her. She can manage sky-blue, perhaps. Dawn sky blue, green-leaf sky blue...

_ Dark as the storming sky, sometimes, _ she thinks, looking away from the storm clouds.  _ I will remind Tallstar that we must move the nests under shelter for the night. _

Pragmatism is what comforts her. She knows how to help her Clan, even when she can’t find the words to face them; no cat complains when she slips away to hunt. She doesn’t hunt the entire time. It’s selfish, but she sprints through the moors, outrunning her thoughts for a few glorious moments where it’s just her and the breeze ruffling her fur. She is a bird, only concerned with her nest and with feeding her chicks, soaring above these traditions and unspoken rules that seem to trip her at every turn.

Her nest is threatened again when the hulking tom in the north gathers his power. He has reached those long claws over their territory to pin RiverClan down and force them to join him. This time, Ashfoot’s problems will not be solved by going out to hunt and run.

Onewhisker is a clever, quick-laughing young tom and Morningflower’s precious son, Gorsepaw, is apprenticed to him in an effort by Tallstar to get him to come out of his shell. Gorsepaw is a bright apprentice, who catches on quickly to Onewhisker’s tutelage. They have something in common, Ashfoot thinks. Both the only kits in their litter, and both living through a troubled time. When he finally begins to open up, Gorsepaw has a bright purr and wide smile.

Tigerstar widens that smile into a terrible red hole.

He did it himself; Ashfoot saw him. She was too late to save her sister’s kit. Tigerstar retreats before Morningflower can tear his skin off. Cloudrunner is dead too, long before this battle, and his unwavering strength and courage live on in Ashfoot’s sister. Tigerstar will feel the wrath soon, she knows that.

Looking down at Gorsepaw, though, she doesn’t feel wrathful. She feels terribly empty, and terribly full. The stirring in her stomach has come at the worst time.

She doesn’t tell Deadfoot.

The battle comes less than a moon later. No cat sees the slight curve of her stomach; if anything, she looks less like a hollow skeleton than she has in moons. Deadfoot does not feel his kits when they curl up together.

They pad into battle side by side.

The tiny black demon opens Tigerstar from chin to tail, then tells Firestar that he wants the forest. Firestar is young, still raging and hot-blooded from too many deaths, and promises this Scourge that blood will indeed rule the forest. Ashfoot does not want more blood. She wants moons of peace that have been robbed from WindClan, and she wants to tell Deadfoot. It is not the right time.

They pad into battle side by side.

She leaves alone.

It was not the right time for that, either. She wishes she had fought a little harder, either ripped that uncollared gray-black fleabag off of the blue-eyed tom that made her feel, or forced him to rip her open too. Her belly ripples as if the unborn kits are reminding her that they would have no future if that happened.

She does not feel like she has much of a future anyway.

Mudclaw is made deputy.

Crowkit is born.

The world lacks colour.

Until Crowkit blinks open his big, round eyes, his pelt so dark it’s  _ almost _ black,  _ storm cloud _ black but not quite true black… and his eyes are brilliant, stormy-sky blue. She cries with relief that night and curls around her son.

Her son grows, and her world flickers in and out of colour. She sees it sometimes, in the sprig of heather Onewhisker lays on Meadowslip’s grave, and in the hint of green on the wing of Crowpaw’s first catch. A lapwing. She congratulates her son, even as feeling clogs her throat and once more she is left wordless, trying so very hard to act her part as a proud mother.

She was right; Crowpaw is as fast as she was. He does not quite have Deadfoot’s easy charm, but his rare smile wins Nightpaw in an instant. He is smart, strong, and quick. All that WindClan can hope for in an apprentice, and everything she would have said she wanted in a son. She wishes his pelt was black.

He disappears in green-leaf.

She is lost again. The fourth time, is it? Her mate is dead. Her son is gone. She finds a heartbeat of peace at the strangest time; during a tumultuous Gathering, as the leaders sling accusations, she meets the gaze of another she-cat. A ThunderClan she-cat, with the same strength in her lean body that she does not know what to do with now that her kit is gone, and the same unfocused despair in her pale green eyes.

She feels kinship with the she-cat, but does not speak it aloud. StarClan would not take so many promising young warriors without reason, would they? No matter what their plan is, their parents are left behind, adrift. Firestar is angry, Graystripe and Mosspelt are panicking, Goldenflower is very quiet, and Sandstorm looks just as lost as Ashfoot feels.

Crowpaw returns. His ears are sharp and alert and have shed the last of their kit fluff. There is more strength and hunger in his body than there was when he left. There is a weight in his blue eyes that Ashfoot feels deep in her own heart. Her kit is a tom, now. He asks to be named Crowfeather, and Ashfoot does not know why. She wanted him to be named Crowfoot, but she knows the past is going to fade sometime. It might as well begin now.

And she’s ready to be the first to fade, swept away into obscurity after too many journeys, too many fallen Clanmates… StarClan has other plans. Tallstar dies, whispering his last words to that ginger tom, who declares that Onewhisker is the true leader of WindClan. They are thrown into upheaval. Ashfoot looks at the strong brown deputy. The flash in his eyes when the power is torn from him reminds her of another tom, one who killed her sister’s kit.

She looks at the young tom with the quick laugh who taught that kit everything he could instead. Crowfeather throws his support behind One _ star _ , and Ashfoot realizes very suddenly that her son has power now. He is StarClan’s chosen; he has made a journey almost alone that she had dozens of cats to help her through. He has seen some kind of loss; she can scent it on his pelt, the sorrow clinging to him like raindrops. Her Clanmates respect him.

But it is not her son’s name that comes from One _ star _ ’s mouth. Ashfoot steps forward, dips her head to another brown tom with amber eyes and wonders if Tallstar made the right choice. He wants her name, her status, her seniority associated with his leadership. He is young and brash, she is established and steady. She disagrees with just about everything he says, but she does not have eight more lives. She has one, and she cannot help thinking it is mostly finished.

She looks up into the sky again. It is night, and the blue of her mate’s eyes has transformed into the black of his pelt. She misses him. It is an emotion as simple and blunt as she is, but it stretches deep into her and she feels its claws ache in the very depths of her soul.  _ Soon _ , she says to herself. Old age has begun to gild her muzzle in silver, slow her pace. Crowfeather shoots past her as they hunt on WindClan’s new territory. He seems more free these days—the deep, grieving weight in his blue eyes has lifted. She thinks her son is in love, and she wonders if he has at last begun to feel the same for Nightcloud as the black she-cat feels for him. She would like to see her son happy before she has to leave.

But no battle erupts. Tensions simmer. She scents Tigerstar in the heather and thinks she has finally gone senile. Perhaps now Onestar will let her retire. A revelation is made at a Gathering. She stares at her son and wonders who he is. When his blue eyes blaze with defiance, she remembers.  _ He is me. Me and Deadfoot. _

His pace loses its carelessness. He is stiff and angry these days, short with Breezepelt, whose own amber gaze grows darker by the day.

The next time she scents Tigerstar, Breezepelt’s scent is mixed in.

She looks up at the stars one more time before the final battle.  _ I will die, _ she is certain.

Yes, it is inevitable, in a slow, aching, familiar way. She has brushed her pelt with it in many battles, many long leaf-bares where prey was thin and coughs abounded, but it has never called her. She can hear StarClan calling now.

That is why she throws herself into battle like she is a new warrior once more. She wants Tigerstar, Brokenstar, one of the toms that has ruined her life or cut open someone she cared for, to be there for her to hook her claws into one last time.

Instead, she finds a sleek, skinny tom that reeks of mulch and rot. She doesn’t recognize him for a moment, not until he whips forward and latches onto her throat. It is tearing, just like Deadfoot’s did, and a spark lights within her.  _ It was you! _ Those hindlegs that have never failed her in a leap to pounce on a rabbit or a long stride to outpace a Clanmate strike out and find soft belly-fur. She guts him. They bleed out together.

It is quiet and dark for several long moments. Peace has found her. She has found him. Her muzzle has darkened to its storm-gray of youth, her eyes have cleared and sharpened, and she feels the energy to race through StarClan with him again.

_ The best things take time,  _ she thinks when her eyes meet his.  _ Who told me that? _ It sounds like an elder’s saying, but it slots into place in her memory when he breaks that starry rank, his eyes made of sky, and presses his muzzle into her fur.

His StarClan body doesn’t feel incorporeal, but then again, she is a ghost now too, isn’t she? A long, shuddering sigh is released from her. Perhaps it is her last breath, but when she draws in another she feels true tranquility wash over her.

They pad into StarClan together.


	3. PHILIA

**III. PHILIA**

When Stoneteller allows them to cast stones—to decide whether to leave the land of their kin, or journey into the wilderness for a better future—Shattered Ice tells himself he will not leave. 

He is the last of his family’s line; both his mother and father had died long ago. His father’s mother, Misty Water, is the only kin he has left, and she votes to stay. Her expectation is clear in the way she stares at him, and he has always been taught to respect his elders.

Jackdaw’s Cry comes over to him with his own stone. “What are you going to choose?” he asks, quietly. At first, he thinks his friend is uncertain on his own decision, but then his friend’s gaze turns flinty.

“I think I’m going to stay,” Shattered Ice admits carefully. “My father’s mother is old, and I would like to be here to care for her before she passes.”

There’s a pause, and Jackdaw’s Cry says very intentionally, “Falling Feather and I have both decided we’re leaving, whether you’re coming or not.” He talks with an air of confidence, but there’s a worried look in his eye. He adds, on a more pleading note, “We’ve been friends since we were born, Shattered Ice. We promised we’d do everything together.” His gaze sweeps around the cavern. “We’re young and full of potential still. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life caring for a cat who’s already half-dead, rotting away behind the waterfall?”

He hesitates, suddenly unsure. But he doesn’t answer, and before he can, the black tom is up next to vote, and as expected, he pushes his stone against Misty Water’s stone before backing away.

It’s Shattered Ice’s turn, but he’s caught between his only kin and his closest friendship.

The grey-and-white tom doesn’t want to leave; the unknown scares him more than anything. He doesn’t want to break tradition, or let down the cats he’s grown up with. _But,_ whispers his head, _either way you’ll disappoint someone. Jackdaw’s Cry speaks some truth; however blunt he might have been, is this really the future I want?_

He looks around, sees the skinny, starving cats around him, and remembers the piles of snow outside, the sky-borne predators, the jagged cliffs.

Shattered Ice takes a deep breath, avoids Misty Water’s pressing look, and shoves his stone towards the pile to leave.

Misty Water looks shocked, and maybe even a little indignant, but Jackdaw’s Cry’s breath of relief is enough to keep his pelt from burning up with shame.

They decide to set out the next morning, so however worried he is about Misty Water’s reaction, Shattered Ice knows this is likely one of the last opportunities he will receive to say goodbye.

When he approaches her, Misty Water regards him carefully, and he shuffles his paws awkwardly under her gaze. 

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he blurts out unnecessarily. 

“I’m quite aware, thank you.”

_She doesn’t understand._ “I’m not going to be here when you die,” Shattered Ice tries to elaborate. “I won’t be able to take care of you.”

Misty Water sits up straight, eyes locking with his, and tells him, “I’ve known that for a while. I’ve reconciled myself with that knowledge for moons. If that’s what is conflicting you about leaving, don’t let it weigh you down.”

He opens his mouth to say something but snaps it shut again. Her words are the closest to a blessing than he’s ever heard from her before, so Shattered Ice takes his cue to leave.

“I’ll miss you,” he says, quietly.

She turns away into her sparse nest, ending the conversation as she tucks her nose under her tail. “Goodbye, Shattered Ice.”

**PHILIA**

At dawn, Shattered Ice is awoken by a paw in his side. It’s Jackdaw’s Cry, but his friend’s eyes are wide with something he can’t quite identify.

“Shattered Ice!” he hisses. “Something’s happened.”

The fog of sleep suddenly fades, and Shattered Ice blinks as panic begins to set in. “What? Who?”

Jackdaw’s Cry falters, then blurts, “Misty Water’s passed on.”

_What?_ He springs out of his nest. “No, no, no, no … this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

He stumbles into the main cavern. Her body has already been folded nicely, paws under her chest. There’s a strange throb of grief in his heart, blurring his vision.

“We have to go soon, still,” declares Shaded Moss, though his gaze rests sorrowfully on Misty Water’s still form. “The wind is going to get stronger the longer we linger.”

Shattered Ice touches his nose to his father’s mother again, and he gives the cave one last whispered goodbye.

The group crowds away, and as Shattered Ice steps away from the cavern, further into the cold air, he hears, "We trust the Teller of the Pointed Stones to know where our future lies. We will follow the path of the rising sun, but we will always carry the mountains, and all of you, in our hearts."

Shaded Moss’ words echo away, and they begin to walk.

**PHILIA**

The journey is harrowing. Shattered Ice sees lands that are golden and green, and lands that thrive in a way the mountains never could.

It’s dangerous and foreign, but he survives. He is one of the lucky ones; not everybody is. He and Jackdaw’s Cry adapt, because they don’t see another choice.

He moves on, and tells himself he has to be stronger than he was before.

Shattered Ice calls himself loyal above all else, and he challenges anything he deems disloyal.

The cats he grew up with drift away, but Jackdaw’s Cry doesn’t.

Eventually, though, tensions grow. Borders are drawn, then overstepped, and the First Battle begins.

Jackdaw’s Cry falls prey to the unrestricted bloodshed, and suddenly Shattered Ice’s routine life is gone.

Shattered Ice swears at the spirits, but they don’t show up to explain themselves. He can’t share his anger with his campmates; they wouldn’t understand. Hawk Swoop is the only one he would trust, but she is already grieving enough.

He has no kin here in this strange place, away from the generations of his ancestors among the mountains. His campmates are not enough, and they are not the same as the cats he grew up with.

But he’s not the same, either.

Shattered Ice is alone, and he grieves silently, deep in the tunnels when everybody else has gone to sleep in their nests. _Like everything is normal again. Like it was before the Battle._

Tunneling had been their thing, and it is not the same without Jackdaw’s Cry. The darkness and the press of the soil is suddenly unfamiliar and he sees the dangers everywhere. It is no longer the same without his tunneling partner, and he does not wish to face the earth alone.

Shattered Ice emerges with the light of the sun, and his voice is low but firm, when he says, “I will not ever tunnel again,” and his voice begins to shake but he continues with, “as long as I roam this land. I swear it by the stars of endless hunting, and on my kin and my kin before me.”

He adapts and changes, because he doesn’t see another choice. He moves to River Ripple’s camp, and he leaves his past life behind.


	4. PHILAUTIA

**IV. PHILAUTIA**

Finchkit’s first breath is her last breath.

Sandgorse came too late to see even that. It was only her, Brackenwing, and her mewling son that witnessed her tiny daughter’s brief glimpse of life. All through her apprenticeship to Violetdust, side by side with Sandpaw, he has been late. He likes to stay in the tunnels until the last heartbeat he can, when Flailfoot finally calls him in. He teases Palepaw and tells her that she is ready to be an elder already, because she loves to sleep so much. He emerges like a pale yellow shadow in the moonlight.

He is in the tunnels when she dies.

Palebird thinks she dies at the same time as her daughter; when Finchkit’s heart, no larger than one of her little pink pads, gives out. She does not deserve to live on when one so tiny and innocent is dead. Sandgorse comes back, a pale yellow shadow once more, to find her grieving. This is not what was supposed to happen; they had a plan.

When Sandgorse came to her after their warrior ceremony, she knew he had the same future in mind as she did. They would tunnel side by side, from dawn until dusk, until she was expecting. Then she would have perfect kits, they would be apprenticed to Hickorynose and Woollytail, their two tunneling friends, and they would all tunnel together as a family when they were made warriors.

This is not what happens. She has two perfect kits, and one of them dies. She cannot speak when Sandgorse comes, so it is him that names their surviving son, a little tom patched in black and white like her, Tallkit for his tail. He says it will make him a fine tunneler.

She doesn’t want to face StarClan after Finchkit dies. She’s always had her own connection to them; the official WindClan one, under the starry night sky, but more than that… when she is deep in the earth, churning mud and dirt out of their newest path, the heat of her muscles and the warmth of the rich soil becoming one until she is just a speck, just a tiny part of a massive system of life and energy, she can feel StarClan so much more closely. Violetdust is there beside her, pushing it back, her mother Fogcloud is there, the one she never knew… 

But Palebird can’t go back into those tunnels to meet with StarClan. She feels she can manage in the open air, with the sky at tail’s-length, but in the earth it is too close and too sudden. She hangs back as the Clan opens a hole in the ground to lay her tiny daughter in. The earth is warmer than the night’s air, and she can feel the world too immediately around her for a heartbeat. Everything is hot and pressing in, choking her, so she retreats to the nursery.

It is not the Clan way to take grief so deeply to heart. She cannot meet Brackenwing or Meadowslip’s eyes for shame; they guard her like she is a kit of theirs, not their denmate, but she knows they wonder if she’ll put herself back together one day. She thinks she never will. She doesn’t want to; to feel happy after losing her kit is a betrayal to Finchkit’s memory.

When Tallkit races back into the nursery, wailing that he hurts his claws and that he hates tunneling, she washes him silently. Sandgorse’s eyes gleam angrily, his pelt prickles at his son’s words as if Tallkit has declared StarClan to be a bunch of doddering old fools, but Palebird understands. Tallkit doesn’t have the same connection to the earth; not yet at least, and if there’s a chance for it to grow in him she doesn’t want Sandgorse to force it. He has never been a patient tom, though.

She wants Tallkit to be happy; that’s all, really. She can’t hope for anything in her own life. After Finchkit, there will be no more chance at eternal joy for her. She wishes she could find comfort in her Clanmates, if not real happiness, and there are heartbeats where she feels like she might; when Brackenwing reminds her that she saw Finchkit too before she died, and when Sandgorse comes back early from tunneling to lay next to Palebird and help her groom her pelt. Mostly there are just long, bleak lulls.

She feels a little more at ease when Bess comes with her family and friends, and doesn’t look at Palebird like she’s waiting for her to fix herself. She settles next to her and wraps her tail around her. Palebird feels like she can let some of the hollow sadness in her heart out without being judged. Bess agrees to stay in the nursery but worries for Reena, and Palebird fears that her friend will leave her to Brackenwing and Meadowslip’s sideways glances. But Tallpaw volunteers to share a den with Reena, and from the look the young rogue shoots him, Palebird hopes he might find the joy she’s lost forever.

Moons later, ShadowClan attacks. Again, Palebird retreats to the nursery, shaking with fear that she’d forgotten. Brackenwing doesn’t retreat. Brackenwing throws herself into the battle, and she dies. Pain and grief that Palebird thought she had insulated herself again swamp her. No cat has seen Finchkit alive but her, and she alone can keep the memory of her ginger daughter alive.

That memory is the only part of her that  _ is _ alive, Palebird thinks. She looks at the night sky and wonders if one of the stars is Finchkit. Or if she is deep within the earth, working on a tunnel. Palebird is not meant to move on, she is certain. She has to stay fixed in the moment her daughter died, or she will lose her forever.

Sandgorse dies. Palebird tucks herself deep into her own pelt and lets the numbness cloak her until she doesn’t feel anything at all. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t spot the rage building Tallpaw’s eyes.

Incomprehensibly, he wants to tunnel. He pleads with Heatherstar, but Palebird feels a numb wave of relief wash over her when Heatherstar puts an end to  _ all _ tunneling. Palebird has not returned to the tunnels. The earth took her kitten, her mate, and it will not take her son. Palebird must live on in sorrow with Finchkit’s memory, and now Sandgorse’s too. Is she truly not allowed to find joy again? For the first time, she wonders if this is the right way to live; to commit herself to being the solemn bearer of memories.

Meadowslip moves into the nursery and the rogues leave. Life moves on and Palebird manages to keep herself from feeling. WindClan changes. Tallpaw does not. There is hardness in his eyes and Palebird does not know how to help him.

Warmth blooms in her when Woollytail presses his pelt to hers during Meadowslip’s kitting. She is afraid; she does not want to see her denmate shatter the same way she did. She is beginning to wonder if she can heal after all, if she can find more in life than thinking of Finchkit and Sandgorse. Woollytail’s eyes are warm and don’t expect anything of her. She is hot and cold, tender one heartbeat and utterly removed the next, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

The tunnelers are stripped of their ranks, but she knows he is a true tunneler all the same. It is his patience. Sandgorse had the fire to push through a difficult spot, but Woollytail has the patience to wait and try again the next day. She notices it, and then appreciates it, and then loves it. She grows to love  _ him _ . He waits for her. He reminds her that she is allowed to move on from Sandgorse, and with a great aching sense of loss, she finally lets him go. Lets him and Finchkit go, returned to the earth and the stars, and she keeps living.

Meadowslip’s kits are healthy and alive. She doesn’t flinch around them anymore, but when she feels a stir in her own belly moons later, she feels an old shimmer of panic seize her paws, making her tremble.

_ I’m older now _ , she thinks.  _ It will be harder, and last time it was  _ too  _ hard and I lost Finchkit. Will I be completely lost this time? _ Will she die the way her mother did? Woollytail is more understanding. He tells her that he is there and that things will be okay. Some nights she believes him and some nights she doesn’t.

Four kits come from her belly through an agonizing day of pain and snapped branches and Hawkheart’s poor attempts to soothe her. It is a miracle from StarClan, and as she looks down, she wonders if they are apologizing.

Black, white, pale brown, medium brown. No hint of yellow or ginger in their pelts. She thinks of Sandgorse for the first time in many moons and wonders if he is happy. Has she betrayed him? But she finally feels love, looking at these little kits of hers, feels love when Woollytail comes in, as excited as a new apprentice. Maybe it is wrong or selfish; she knows that Talltail thinks it is, but she wants to be selfish. She wants to feel this love again.

Flykit and Rabbitkit are named for Woollytail’s parents. Palebird takes inspiration and names the black tom Bristlekit, for her father. She looks down at the last she-kit, a little brown tabby, and doesn’t think that Fogkit suits her. No, she won’t name the she-kit for Palebird’s mother, but for the kit’s sister instead. Finchkit would cause too many whispers, so she thinks of another bird whose feathers match the she-kit’s pelt better and says,

“Wrenkit.”   
  


Woollytail thinks it is a lovely name and cuddles up to his new kits and mate. When Talltail comes in to visit them, Palebird feels a crack open up in her new life and she hisses at him to not hurt the kits. She is fiercely protective, not wanting to let the tragedies and pain that plagued her old family touch the new one. Talltail recoils, and the last bit of softness seeps out of his amber gaze. Palebird regrets her words too late.

Talltail announces that he is going to leave WindClan.

In the worst way, it feels right. Palebird has rebuilt herself, Finchkit died after taking her first breath, and Sandgorse went out in an accident. Talltail must go as well; there is no family left for him in WindClan. Her darling daughter Wrenkit, so small and like Finchkit, asks who will give them badger rides. She sweeps her closer to her flank with her tail and assures her that Talltail will not be gone too long.

She looks into her grown, angry son’s eyes and she sees it. The same feeling of heat, of a stifling, unbearable world crushing him, and she knows he needs to escape. She won’t judge him, but it isn’t until he is gone that she wonders if he interpreted her limpid gaze as apathetic.

He comes back before Wrenkit, Flykit, Bristlekit, and Rabbitkit are made apprentices. Flykit and Bristlekit, her two little sons, are so similar to Talltail that her heart aches some days, seeing their little black and white pelts pressed together as they venture about the camp cautiously. Rabbitkit always cleans the sand out of their ears, little mother hen that she is, and Wrenkit… little Wrenkit. She has the nut-brown colouring of the bird she was named for, not quite the orange of Finchkit’s fur, but her muzzle, her round eyes that sharpen and glimmer with more complex emotions than Finchkit ever got the chance to… Palebird wonders if StarClan gave Finchkit a second chance in her other daughter.

Talltail comes back, herding her kits along.

She has been worried sick, and is on them in an instant. She cannot bear to look at Talltail; now he knows that she has had as much trouble mothering these kits as she did him. She hates herself for it. She asks Talltail why he didn’t come straight home.

He merely replies that it is good to see her, and then pushes back into camp. Her son is a new tom, and Palebird is terribly sad to find that she does not know who. Still, with Talltail back it feels like those last cracks in her heart have healed. Her son is not so hard and angry anymore.

Palebird begins to leave camp again. She is alone with her thoughts, something she has not been able to do since… since she cannot remember. She has new memories now, ones that don’t haunt her. She doesn’t force herself to remember everything about Finchkit, Sandgorse, all the ghosts that wait for her when she closes her eyes… She doesn’t deserve to grieve forever, she decides. Sandgorse always tried to cheer her up when she got into a mood, but now she’ll have to do it herself. He loved her, and he is gone, so now she must love herself.

She is allowed to move on. She is allowed to feel happy. And so she does; she catches her kits prey, she teases Woollytail, and she learns who her son has become on that long journey of his.

As Palebird settles down to watch her kits’ apprentice ceremonies, unable to help herself from quickly smoothing Rabbitkit’s head-fur and picking away the scrap of heather that clings to Flykit’s whiskers, she realizes that it wasn’t really Woollytail who saved her at all. It is what she has thought for a while, that she was shattered by Finchkit and Sandgorse’s untimely deaths, and that this kind, patient tom put her back together. It would fit with the elders’ tales.

But she knows that in the end, it was her own heart that permitted her to move on. She couldn’t let Finchkit go for so long, and she didn’t want to repeat the same moons of pain when Sandgorse passed. She wanted a new chance, and Woollytail was there.

Wrenflight, Rabbitfur, Bristlewhisker, and Flynose race over the moors together with their big brother. They won’t know the feeling of moving dirt under their paws, the exhilaration of breaking through a tunnel on the other side, Palebird knows, and she is not alone in that thought. Woollytail watches their kits with misty eyes, and she pokes his big belly teasingly, but they can share that feeling of loss. Not so raw, jagged, and immovable as the loss of Finchkit or Sandgorse, thank StarClan. Just sadness. Plain, understandable Clan-sadness, that Mistmouse, Hickorynose, and so many others can share with them.

Woollytail retires before Wrenflight announces that she is expecting Stagleap’s kits. Palebird finally retires too, just after the announcement. She lets the shadow of Finchkit that she has always seen behind her clever, lovely daughter go, and feels love and joy for the cat that Wrenflight truly is. Wrenflight has two daughters, both alive. Palebird does not resurrect any memories when she sees Morningkit’s ginger patches, just smoothes down the fur of her grand-kit and purrs.

Woollytail dies in leaf-bare. He has had a persistent cough for a year, and green-cough takes control. She is curled around him when she feels his heart stop. She doesn’t wail this time, doesn’t run, she just rests her muzzle on his shoulder one last time, until the heat leaves his frail body. They lay him back in the dirt where he was meant to be and Palebird keeps vigil.

None of the numb loss that she fears creeps in after his death and she knows she was right. The new love has come from within. She knows she will see her mates in StarClan, she will be with Finchkit, and she will watch over her son. She lives out her last days with peace and love in her heart. She is pleased with the cat she’s become, with the life she’s led. Maybe Sandgorse was right; she was always meant to become an elder, thinking of her long, full life with nostalgic warmth, taking care of many generations. She tells Ashkit and Morningkit stories, and they take good care of her when they are made apprentices. She lives just long enough to see her son become the leader of their Clan, and once she knows that some cat else is ready to take care of them all, her heart lets go. She apologizes to Tallstar as she goes, for everything, and he licks her ear as if to let her know he heard her, and she forgives herself too. She finds StarClan peacefully.


	5. LUDUS

**V. LUDUS**

Before she is even half-way through her apprenticeship, Heatherpaw finds herself surrounded by the most insufferable toms to have ever existed.

Her denmates consist of:

The littermates, Harepaw and Kestrelpaw, who are three moons older than she is, act like they're gifts sent from StarClan, despite the fact that Heatherpaw is sure they've come straight from the depths of the Place of No Stars.

Harepaw reminds her daily how honored she should be that she shares a den with the one and only Greatest Apprentice in the Clan. That is, of course, a lie, since Heatherpaw has seen Harepaw get flattened during training. She doesn't say anything, though—it would be more trouble than worth it.

Kestrelpaw is StarClan's chosen one, as he likes to say, so of course he is obviously right about everything, all the time.

He tells her one day that StarClan's sent a sign that she's destined to end up in a forbidden relationship, with a smirk on his face, but she ignores him, because, "You wish. Like that'll ever happen."

Breezepaw is her other denmate, and he's only a moon-and-a-half younger than she is. Somehow, though, he's impossibly bossy. He's especially annoying when he thinks he's better than her, just because his father happens to be her mentor.

But Crowfeather doesn't do anything to help her out, ever. He's wholly dedicated to training her and doing his warrior duties and hardly anything else, including spending time with his mate and son.

Heatherpaw complains about this to Onestar only once.

Her father acts sympathetic to her plight, but he refuses to let her have a different mentor. Even with Whitetail's gentle encouragement, he will not lift a paw to help her.

"You're the leader." Heatherpaw stares at him, lashing her tail. "Why can't you do anything about it?"

But Onestar gives her a pitying look. "You'll understand when you're older." Heatherpaw grumbles; she hates that excuse, but it's clear she's been dismissed.

The opportunity is gone.

"It'll get better," Whitetail comforts one night when Heatherpaw is fed-up with the increasing immaturity of her denmates. Her mother grooms her pelt, and for a moment, Heatherpaw feels like a kit in her nursery days again. "I promise it will."

She closes her eyes, but inside she's seething with every inch of herself. Nobody can deny that Whitetail is a wonderful mother and an even more outstanding warrior, but she has never questioned Onestar—her mate—at least, not that Heatherpaw has ever seen.

In the end, Whitetail has always been willing to bow to whatever Onestar's final decision is. But Heatherpaw? Heatherpaw watches her mother quietly leave the apprentice's den, out of the corner of her eye, and she vows to never be the same way.

**LUDUS**

"You can't even catch a rabbit right! We're WindClan, you know."

Heatherpaw flattens her ears at yet another of Breezepaw's rude remarks. "You haven't caught any prey yet today, either," she scoffs, "so I don't think you can say anything about my hunting techniques."

"Heatherpaw!" Crowfeather sends her a stern glance, but she avoids his gaze with a roll of her eyes. Stop defending your son's idiocy, she thinks with a lash of her tail.

Breezepaw sends her a smug look, and Heatherpaw fights back the urge to throw a well-deserved back insult at him.

But before she can, Whitetail, ahead of them, stops short and turns to the rest of the patrol. Concern fills her voice. "Crowfeather, there's a ThunderClan apprentice in the lake!"

An apprentice in the lake? Heatherpaw narrows her eyes and rushes forward towards the edge of the water to see what her mother is talking about. As Whitetail had said, a small form splashes frantically near ThunderClan's border.

Crowfeather comes up beside her, and before she can say another word, he's leaped into the lake. She watches silently as he paddles towards the floundering apprentice and drags them to shore.

"Where'd you learn to swim like that?" Breezepaw stares at his father, an unusual curiosity glittering in his amber eyes, but he doesn't receive the courtesy of an answer.

The apprentice, a grey tabby, lays still on the sandy stretch, but Crowfeather applies pressure to his chest, and the ThunderClan cat sits up, coughing up water.

_His eyes!_ Heatherpaw notices them immediately. They're pale blue, but cloudier than a normal cat's, and instantly the apprentice is on guard.

"Who are you?" he snaps. "And why am I on WindClan territory?"

Crowfeather growls in response, "Who are you?"

The apprentice lashes his tail, fluffs out his sodden fur, and practically glares at her mentor. "I'm an apprentice. From ThunderClan."

Something in Crowfeather tenses. The dark grey tom stares disdainfully at the apprentice. "You look like a kit. I'll escort you back to your camp, so that you don't impale yourself on a branch. I'm sure that Firestar will be pleased with this."

"I am not a kit!" The apprentice bristles.

"Then what's your name?" Crowfeather demands.

When the apprentice doesn't respond, Whitetail sends Crowfeather a harsh look. " _I_ know you're not a kit," she tells him. "But I need something to call you besides The ThunderClan Apprentice."

The apprentice lets out a loud, dramatic sigh. "Fine, I'm Jaypaw."

Crowfeather mutters something under his breath before speaking up. "All right, Jaypaw, I'm bringing you back to your camp now."

Heatherpaw takes the opportunity to ask, "Can I come with you?"

Crowfeather glances at her and says, "I want you to stay with Whitetail and Breezepaw and return to camp. Onestar will want to know about this."

Jaypaw shrinks back some.

Breezepaw watches them go, looking a bit scornful. "What a clumsy cat," he scoffs suddenly, his tail flicking. "Did you see his eyes? He can't even see; what's ThunderClan doing anyways, letting blind apprentices wander out alone?"

Whitetail cuffs her apprentice around the ear. "Show some respect, Breezepaw," she hisses. "I don't think—"

Heatherpaw feels a strange surge of irritation towards Breezepaw and cuts Whitetail off. "Don't be such a jerk, Breezepaw," she snaps. "How would you feel if someone made fun of something you couldn't control? If someone made fun of the fact that your littermates died?"

It's a harsh comparison, and a topic most Clan cats wouldn't bother to speak about. Breezepaw looks furious, and Whitetail looks stunned at her words.

The black apprentice opens his mouth, only to close it again. Hurt flickers for a moment in his amber eyes, but he masks it quickly.

"Don't talk about them," he growls, and on the walk back to camp, nobody says a single word.

**LUDUS**

Onestar announces the Gathering patrol a few nights later, and Heatherpaw is a part of it. Breezepaw is not—she's sure it's because Whitetail mentioned the scene he made—and she wonders if Jaypaw will be there.

She follows Whitetail across the territory and into Fourtrees, but almost immediately, she splits off into the group of apprentices.

Berrypaw, one of the ThunderClan apprentices, gives a little huff when she asks about Jaypaw. "Oh, you helped fish him out, huh? He got confined to camp for a while," he informs. "Firestar wasn't too pleased about the situation, but it's whatever. I wouldn't have been so uncoordinated as to fall in a giant lake." The cream tom practically preens; Heatherpaw wants to roll her eyes. "Serves him right, really."

Onestar calls the Gathering to begin, and Whitetail gestures for Heatherpaw to sit with the rest of WindClan. She quickly takes the opportunity to get away from Berrypaw.

The news is pretty standard—the leaders all say that prey is running well, and that their borders are well-protected. Heatherpaw doesn't pay much attention.

After the announcements, she's approached by another ThunderClan apprentice—a golden tabby tom.

"I'm Lionpaw," he introduces. "Berrypaw said you were asking after Jaypaw?"

Heatherpaw narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Yeah, I was," she says. "What's it to you?"

The golden tom looks a little taken aback by her forwardness. He shuffles his paws. "I'm his brother," Lionpaw explains. "I can keep you updated on him, if you want."

She's a little suspicious. "Yeah?"

Lionpaw changes the subject, and they make some small talk as the Gathering winds down.

When Onestar calls WindClan to leave, Heatherpaw turns to leave. As she starts to pad away, Lionpaw leans in close and hisses, "Meet me on the border in two nights."

"That's against the code," Heatherpaw protests weakly.

"Just like Hollypaw," Lionpaw mutters under his breath. Louder, he says, with a gleam in his amber eyes, "I won't tattle if you break a few rules, you know."

Heatherpaw pauses.

Lionpaw doesn't talk to her like she's worth less than he is, or like she's Onestar's daughter, all high-and-mighty. She likes being a normal apprentice, and maybe it's worth the respect to reveal her hiding place.

"Not there," she says. "Meet me in the tunnels between WindClan and ThunderClan."

**LUDUS**

Heatherpaw feels a thrill of excitement when she sneaks out of camp for the first time. It's nearly pitch-black outside, and the guard outside has fallen asleep. The faint sound of crickets is all that she hears on the vast moor.

She makes her way towards the tunnels and waits for Lionpaw. When he appears, she feels a thrill of excitement, and something ignites a flame inside her that she hadn't known existed.

The tunnels are large and cavernous; the perfect meeting place. Heatherpaw justifies this with, "They're both WindClan and ThunderClan's, yet neither at the same time."

More importantly, it's their secret: only she and Lionpaw know it exists, and she intends to keep it that way.

"I'll be Heatherstar," she announces. She stands atop a rocky ledge; her own, personal Tallrock. "Leader of… DarkClan."

Lionpaw stares at her from below, eyes shining. "I'll be your faithful deputy," he declares, waving his tail. "Lion… Lionfang!"

He doesn't seem to mind too much that she's the "leader" in this game, and that makes Heatherpaw smile, because that's something she's never been able to do before.

She's not afraid to take charge in their game, in DarkClan. But in WindClan, she's never been allowed to even try.

WindClan sees her as nothing more than a delicate little flower, a pretty little sprig of heather. But Lionpaw? Lionpaw looks at her like she's so much more than a flower.

In this little window of time that they share in the secrecy of the tunnels, Heatherpaw feels like she belongs somewhere.

They return to the tunnels for several more moons. It's one ray of sunshine in Heatherpaw's routine life, especially after long days of training with her denmates.

She's someone completely different when she's around Lionpaw; she feels like she can really be herself. With him, she doesn't have to bite her tongue back when she wants to say something witty or bold, and she doesn't have to worry about facing the disapproval of her traditional Clanmates.

Heatherpaw feels free.

"Did you ever think you'd be under the ground with a rival apprentice?" she asks one day. "Did you ever think you'd end up here?"

Lionpaw turns his bright amber gaze on her. "I don't know," he says thoughtfully.

She takes his vague answer and runs with it. "If we could," she muses, "if we could run away, just us, away from the clans… would you do it?" It's purely hypothetical, of course, but Heatherpaw wants to know.

He doesn't hesitate at all. "No, of course not." Lionpaw's answer is unwavering. "I'm loyal to ThunderClan above everything. I value my clan more than anything else."

_If you're loyal to ThunderClan above anything else, why bother showing up here?_ But Heatherpaw doesn't say anything, because she understands. She wouldn't leave her clan for Lionpaw, either.

Being near Lionpaw in the forbidden tunnels makes her feel bold and rebellious in a dangerous way, and she loves it.

The realization hits her one day, when Crowfeather's trying to teach her a new battle move: She loves the thrill of sneaking out and breaking the rules. But she doesn't love _Lionpaw_.

**LUDUS**

Surprisingly, Lionpaw is the one who breaks off their relationship, only a moon later. She's sending out a DarkClan patrol when he begins to talk.

"We can't keep doing this," he says suddenly. "I have to be loyal to my Clan, and you have to be loyal to your Clan. We can't do that if we keep breaking the rules. It's only a distraction."

Heatherpaw agrees, and they part ways. Life in WindClan goes on interrupted. She mourns the loss of their friendship more than anything else from their time together. Even so, she's a little more tired afterwards, a little less enthusiastic.

Perhaps Crowfeather is the only one who notices anything. One day when she stumbles out of her nest late, he gives her a long, thoughtful look. There is no comment, but that day's training is merciless anyways.

Her days are filled with training and patrols. She and Breezepaw argue constantly. Harepaw and Kestrelpaw continue to preside over their own special, little society.

Eventually, the tunnels flood. WindClan kits have gone missing, and Heatherpaw wants to find them before anything goes wrong. She doesn't say a word to Lionpaw, and he doesn't talk to her much, either, but that works perfectly fine for her.

His siblings head the apprentice-patrol, followed by Lionpaw. Heatherpaw trails a few tail-lengths behind, and Breezepaw takes up the rear, with his head low and his ears alert.

The air is thick and humid, and the tension is thick enough that Heatherpaw is sure she could cut it with her claws.

The silence, the echoing of their paws, and the rushing of the water together evidently becomes too much for Lionpaw to handle.

Despite their audience, he doesn't bother to filter the words he directs at her. A bitter taste fills her mouth, and Heatherpaw flattens her ears.

"You told Sedgekit about the tunnels, didn't you, Heatherpaw?" It's more of a statement than a question, and he knows it.

"Of course I didn't!" she hisses, but Lionpaw won't listen; he won't even bother hearing her out. His mind is already made up.

"That's what they all say." His voice is dark, and she can hear him lash his tail in the hollowness of the tunnel.

That is the moment where Heatherpaw loses all respect and whatever else she once felt for him. The embers of their flame is extinguished.

Nobody says a word, though she can feel the curious gazes of everyone else burning on her pelt.

"Our priority is finding Sedgekit," she snaps. Her pelt is hot. "Nothing else."

The patrol focuses on their mission, and they find Sedgekit, soaked to the bone and shivering.

Lionpaw, Jaypaw, and Hollypaw split off towards ThunderClan territory. Heatherpaw and Breezepaw trudge towards the WindClan camp, trading Sedgekit between themselves.

She can see how Breezepaw keeps sneaking glances at her, curiosity burning in his eyes. Heatherpaw sighs; she's expecting a snarky comment or an ill-timed lecture. "I know you want to know how Lionpaw and I knew about the tunnels, so you may as well ask away."

There is silence as he passes Sedgekit back over to her, and she waits expectantly.

But Breezepaw only shakes his head. Too slowly. He's already made the connection, she realizes. His gaze flashes with something unreadable. The black tom pauses, takes a deep breath, and looks down at his paws.

Then Breezepaw looks her in the eye, shrugs and says, "It doesn't matter how or what happened or whose fault it was, Heatherpaw, in the end." His eyes flicker away again. "Besides. Our only priority is getting these kits back safe, now."

He doesn't mention what he knows or doesn't know, and surprisingly, he doesn't take her up on her offer to answer his questions.

And maybe, just maybe, a new spark is lit.

That is the moment Heatherpaw realizes that Breezepaw might actually have a heart.

**LUDUS**

The seasons seemingly pass by in a single instant. Her denmates and herself all become warriors: Harespring, Kestrelflight, Heathertail, and Breezepelt.

New apprentices are made, and kits are born.

Whitetail retires. Crowfeather becomes the father of three half-ThunderClan cats.

Heathertail loses Clanmates to sickness, age, battle, and predators.

Battles are won, and some are lost.

But everything pales in comparison to The Great Battle. It pulls everything apart; shakes the trust of her Clanmates into unmendable pieces.

Breezepelt chooses The Dark Forest. She feels a sharp sting of betrayal in her chest. _He didn't trust me enough to tell me_. She knows they had never had an official relationship, but it hurts nonetheless.

The first night after they've defeated the villains from her kit-hood stories, Heathertail cries herself to sleep. She's not even the only one to do so.

Onestar decides to keep Breezepelt under guard in the elders den; nobody knows what to do with him anymore, least of all Crowfeather.

Breezepelt is let out on probation several mooms later, and given back the rights of a WindClan warrior a season after that.

One of the first things he does is approach her. "Can we talk?" Breezepelt looks hopeful.

Heathertail turns away, stomach twisting in uneasy indecision. "Not yet, Breezepelt."

They don't speak for another moon, and their next conversation is an argument. They're both yelling so loud that she's certain everybody in the clan has heard it. But afterwards, they settle into some kind of neutrality.

Their relationship is a complicated one. They're not friends, but they're not simple acquaintances either. She sees the things he won't say. He can't bear to give up his place in her life, and she doesn't have the heart to chase him away.

Any words they exchange are strictly professional. Patrols are awkward and tense, and eventually, Harespring sends them out at the same time less and less frequently.

Onestar notices their distance, but all he does is send Whitetail to comfort her.

But Heathertail brushes off all of her mother's attempts to groom her pelt and whisper sweet words. She tries to ignore Whitetail's hurt when she's pushed away. However nice it might be to be a kit again, that is no longer an option for her.

Heathertail is shattered, and she doesn't know what to do anymore.

**LUDUS**

One night, she wakes up and Breezepelt is gone. The scent in his nest is fresh, and the moss hasn't yet cooled. But other than that, he has completely vanished.

Heathertail hesitates. But she follows his scent trail anyways, because there is something still alluring about sneaking away in the night.

She finds him near the edge of the lake, water lapping over his paws. The grass sways peacefully in the wind behind them, but a storm brews in Breezepelt's eyes.

She doesn't say anything; he knows she's there, and he's stubborn enough that he won't talk unless he wants to.

"I thought it would change things," he says quietly. There's a slight waver to his voice, but even that makes him sound broken. Fragile, almost. "I thought I could be strong enough, and it would make things better."

It doesn't take much brilliance to realize what he's referring to. The Great Battle. Heathertail doesn't have to stay after all he's put her through; she knows she's not indebted to him. But something in her is curious, now, and so she stays.

"Why?" It comes out as a small whisper, and Breezepelt looks at her. The more she looks at him, the worse he seems. The bold, arrogant tom she's known her whole life seems a wreck now.

His breath hitches, and his voice catches some. "I thought it would impress Crowfeather. I thought it would impress you. I thought if I became better, then I would…" He trails off. "I thought I would be worth something."

Breezepelt has done terrible things. All of the clans know it, and she can't even remember them all. Other cats have been condemned for less, surely.

But he's struggling, and so she presses against him. Breezepelt's fully shaking now. "I see them in my dreams," he says flatly. "I can't ever tell if they're real, coming for their revenge, or if they're just … me." There's a pause. "Every time. They've always got eyes on you, they'll kill you unless I help them. I couldn't let them kill you." Another pause. "That's what they threatened in the beginning, too."

Heathertail can feel his heart suddenly beat erratically; she tries to groom his pelt. She can feel how stiffly he's holding himself. "I'm here," she says simply. For all his many faults and moods, Breezepelt has always been predictable in his desire for assurance.

She can't forgive him—she doesn't know if she ever will—but… she can't leave him by the water by himself in this state.

Breezepelt takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Nothing I ever do is good enough. They always kill you, no matter what I do. Like Tigerstar died. Through the belly." He shivers.

"I'm here," she repeats.

They sit there together, for a while. She whispers to him, trying to soothe him. Eventually, his breathing starts to even out, and he starts to look a little less panicked.

Breezepelt begins to relax against her, and his whole body seems to droop.

There is a pause. Heathertail doesn't know whether to repeat history. "If … if we could run away, just us, away from the clans … would you do it?" It's hypothetical, but Heathertail wants to know if he is any different.

Breezepelt does not answer immediately. "I don't know. I'd like to say yes, but it would destroy my mother if I left her. And your parents." He meets her gaze more steadily this time. "I couldn't do that to them. Or to WindClan."

Heathertail doesn't say anything more. She understands. If it came down to it, she'd never want to have to choose between her head and her heart.

Very slowly, the sun begins to rise.

They begin to heal, night by night. Breezepelt's night terrors arrive less and less by the season. His panic attacks end quicker.

Heathertail will never be okay with the things he's done in the past, but she understands why, now, at least.

Breezepelt is nothing like Lionblaze, despite their kinship. He is all layers, all sorts of black and white and grey. He is faceted. There are many different shades to Breezepelt. Heathertail struggles to read them, sometimes.

But even so, she grows to love him: loves that he will stay with her, loves that he listens to her, loves that at the end of the day, he still thinks of her like she's the sun to his moon.

Breezepelt looks at her like she's so much more than a flower.

And moons later, when the time comes, he sees their kits as so much more, too.


	6. MANIA

**VI. MANIA**

The world is beginning to melt when Deadfoot arrives in his dream.

It is not the first time that Crowpaw has dreamed of his legendary father, but this time he looks different. Less towering. His paw is bent the other way. His blue eyes are rounder, pelt a little less deep, light-consuming black. He is not Crowpaw’s interpretation, but instead the real StarClan tom come down to deliver a message about a drowning sun and midnight.

Crowpaw awakens with more purpose in his paws than he has in many moons. Mudclaw tells him that he is going to have his warrior assessment in a half-moon, and Crowpaw, for once, has no sharp retort for his mentor. He is not called to be a warrior, he is called for a  _ quest _ , from StarClan themselves, and there will be no empty-eyed mother or harsh, disappointed mentor where he is going.

He goes to the Fourtrees, just as he is told, and begins to question this quest when he sees the other members. There is a tortoiseshell and white she-cat with the longest claws he has ever seen. He slides out his own claws, trying to prove he is not afraid. There are two from ThunderClan— _ Because one WindClan apprentice is worth two from ThunderClan _ , he tells himself—and they both look unfriendly. A hulking tabby tom that awakens memories of some story Ashfoot told him in the nursery that gave him nightmares, and a tiny ginger she-cat with a bushy tail whose green eyes have a familiar gleam of defiance.  _ She wants to prove herself. Why? _ Then he places her; Squirrelpaw, the precious daughter of Firestar. He has seen her standing under the Great Rock at Gatherings like she’s a mini-deputy.

His eyes land on the RiverClan chosen and stay there. There is a tall, muscled gray tom whose yellow eyes are neither friendly nor hostile. There is... a she-cat.

Crowpaw forgets to think anything for a moment. In the moonlight, she is liquid silver like a frozen stream. She waves her feathery tail in greeting, the most welcoming looking of all these furballs. She blinks at him, crystal-blue eyes wide and friendly. She is beautiful. He dismisses it.  _ All RiverClan cats ever do is groom their pelts and get fat on fish.  _ But he dares hope, a little; maybe this will be tolerable. They are too young to know Deadfoot. It is not a thought he has had many times before, but now he considers it.  _ Could I make… friends? _

His hackles are back up when this  _ Brambleclaw  _ furball tries to establish himself as leader of the group. There’s not much he can do, though; he thought this would be a chance to start over, with a new group of cats that had no attachments to each other. He could not be more wrong; the RiverClan cats are siblings, Squirrelpaw and Brambleclaw have the familiar repartee of cats that grew up together, and Tawnypelt is Brambleclaw’s littermate. Crowpaw has no connection to any of these cats, and quickly decides that he doesn’t want one anyway.  _ I shouldn’t make  _ friends _ with cats from other Clans, no matter how long this quest is. _

He learns things about them, watching with half-slitted eyes. He tells himself he is spying, gathering information on cats from the other Clans. Feathertail seems more comfortable sleeping a little ways away from the group. Brambleclaw and Squirrelpaw like arguing more than paying attention to where they’re going. Feathertail eats her fresh-kill in very small, delicate bites and is always still eating when the rest of them bury their bones. Tawnypelt is homesick and often gets up at night to prowl through the bushes. Feathertail’s eyes are as fresh and vibrant a blue as a bluejay’s feathers in the moonlight. Stormfur is fiercely protective of his sister and suffers night terrors, always yowling about trying to protect some cat. Feathertail is compassionate, and always has a gentle word of encouragement for whoever’s getting disheartened or grumpy. It is usually Crowpaw.

One night, Brambleclaw asks them about their mentors. Perhaps to get Squirrelpaw to shut up about Dustpelt. Tawnypelt tells them about how she put fire ants in Oakfur’s nest. Brambleclaw shares a story of Firestar getting stuck in a tree after an encounter with a dog. Crowpaw grunts something about Mudclaw, not wanting to dwell on his fierce mentor.  _ I thought I could get away from him.  _ Feathertail begins to tell them about Mistyfoot, and Stormfur’s eyes flash, then he gets up and walks off.

She watches him go and Crowpaw waits for the barbed comment that would be expected in WindClan. Instead, she turns back to the group and quietly explains what happened to them during the era of TigerClan. Then she stands to go comfort her brother, and Crowpaw realizes that there is more to a RiverClan cat than fish and shiny fur. He wants to tell her what happened to Deadfoot. She is occupied with her brother.

It is days later, when Brambleclaw ‘orders’ him to run on ahead and check out the next thunderpath that he snaps at the tabby tom. Feathertail lays her tail over his shoulders and steers him away from the group. He forgets his temper in the presence of her, her unyielding calmness like the eye of the storm. She asks him if he misses WindClan. He doesn’t, he says quietly, and worries she’ll think he’s a traitor to his Clan.

She doesn’t. She nods, and says, “I see. Mudclaw hasn’t been a good mentor, has he?”   
  


Crowpaw instinctively wants to tell her that he’s a bad apprentice, and it’s not Mudclaw’s fault, but he hangs his head when she just keeps looking into his eyes, so quiet and patient. It is an oddly addictive feeling to be heard. It comes spilling out of him.

Deadfoot, Ashfoot, Tallstar, Mudclaw… his woes keep coming as they check the thunderpath. She seems a little taken aback at just how much he has inside him, but she hears him out without criticism or a hint of judgement in those lake-blue eyes. He cries when he finishes. They have not gotten back to their companions yet, so Feathertail stops walking and lets him bury his muzzle in her long, sweet-scented fur. His eyes are red and his nose stings when he pulls away, but she just gives him an affectionate nuzzle on the cheek and turns back to keep on the path toward the rest of the group.

It it not until Stormfur rolls onto Crowpaw the next morning, batting his paws playfully, that he realizes RiverClan cats are much more physically affectionate than WindClan warriors. He tries not to be too disappointed, but it is too late. He is swept away looking at Feathertail, he is ready to give up WindClan, give up their journey, even, and run with her until they never see another cat they recognize... but she still has a purpose in her pawsteps. One that may not include him.

They reach the endless saltwater. They watch the sun drown. Brambleclaw tumbles off a cliff, yowling all the way, and Squirrelpaw dives in after him. Crowpaw can only watch, stunned, then race after Feathertail as they descend around the cliff to the cave.  _ Stupid furball. _ It’s not quite as venomous as usual. It’s hard to feel threatened by Brambleclaw when he looks like a drowned weasel.

They receive the news from the peaceful badger, and the rest of the group is horrified. Crowpaw feels the oddest sense of peace wash over him.  _ Things are changing. Perhaps enough can change that we can… _ He meets Feathertail’s eyes, and for a heartbeat he sees some of the same longing in her gaze.

He can hardly breathe, waiting until they are out of earshot of their companions, until it bursts out of him in another rush of words. He wonders faintly what his Clanmates would think of reserved, soft-spoken little Crowpaw passionately declaring love for a RiverClan she-cat. It is a madness of love, tossing him like the salt-capped waves tossed Brambleclaw, driving him out of his wits until all he can see is those bluejay-eyes in the moonlight, until all he cares to hear is her voice.

Impossibly, she feels the same way. Or at least… enough of the same to satisfy the demon in his chest that hammers away at his ribcage. He doesn’t dare say another word, afraid that she’ll be scared of the depth and power of his  _ need _ for her. Instead, he presses his muzzle into her sweet fur once more.

He hears her arguing with Stormfur the next night.

In a terrible way, he is delighted. When their journey began, they were inseparable. But he has the power to sever them. He doesn’t want to, no, he knows family is important to her, but knowing that he  _ could _ …

She comes back to him for comfort, and he wonders if this is how she captured his heart. By listening and being there. He hopes that his presence will do the same. It begins his treacherous descent.

On their way back, they do not wind through the Twolegsplace with that wretched elderly tom, and Crowpaw is relieved. Instead, they begin a trek up into the mountains. He and Feathertail press their pelts together for warmth. She doesn’t sleep away from the group any longer.

When they hit the waterfall, the icy torrent makes him panic. He can only see a dark blur where Feathertail should be, and when he thinks she will be swept off a precipice, down onto the sharp stones below, panic so dark and intense that he cannot breathe or think fills his throat, swells in his chest, and—he lurches out of the water. It is quiet in the cave, and when he sees that Feathertail is safe, he only barely stops himself from smothering her.  _ She is safe _ , he tells himself over and over again.

The dark beast in his chest orders him to never let her out of his sight again. He ignores it, but curls up even closer around her that night. She shifts, asleep, and presses her muzzle in his cheek. A trembling love fills his chest, and he knows that no matter what happens when they return to the forest, he won’t be separated from her.

Stormfur is pulled away from them, and Crowpaw feels a flicker of recognition when he notices how he looks at the Tribe she-cat, Brook.  _ Perhaps he’ll loosen his hold on Feathertail, _ Crowpaw thinks guiltily. Stormfur doesn’t lecture Feathertail anymore.

The Tribe doesn’t let them leave. Crowpaw is prepared to drag Feathertail and the rest of them out of that barren wasteland, to leave Stormfur behind, if it comes to that. She doesn’t need him; she has Crowpaw now, and Stormfur has Brook. Perhaps StarClan or the other Tribe arranged this. But Brambleclaw doesn’t want to abandon the Tribe, and what Brambleclaw wants, he gets, so they stay.

For the first time, Crowpaw doesn’t want to turn it into a fight. He just wants Feathertail.

She is taken from him three days later.

They had a plan. They had a prophecy. Stormfur was going to save the Tribe, stay behind with Brook, and then the chosen cats would return with the news from Midnight. But Brambleclaw had insisted they stay behind, and now Feathertail is dead fighting some beast that isn’t their problem.

_ Wasn’t _ , he should say. It is dead now.  _ She _ is dead now.

Darkness tugs at his paws. He turns inside, ready for that little beast in his chest that demanded so much of him to destroy him. It doesn’t seem to understand that she is gone. It gets the message when they bury her by the waterfall. But instead of burning him up, tearing up the careful stability he’s created with Feathertail’s help, the beast dies, withering away without Feathertail’s love to sustain it. He is left with a hollow chest.

He makes the rest of the journey back in a blur. He thinks of her every day.

_ Never again, _ he vows. She is the first of three.

Despite his certainty that he wouldn’t be friends with them, he cannot help breathing a little easier when he is back at the Gathering with Tawnypelt, Brambleclaw, Squirrelpaw, and Stormfur. Tawnypelt points out Oakfur, Brambleclaw introduces them to Firestar with his chest puffed so far out Crowpaw thinks he might topple over… and they help Stormfur tell Mosspelt and Graystripe. Mosspelt cries out, the heart wrenching grief of a mother who wasn’t there. Graystripe hangs his head. The look in his eye reminds Crowpaw of Ashfoot.  _ He knows tragedy. _ It doesn’t get any easier, though, does it?

Squirrelpaw introduces them to her sister.

It took Crowpaw a journey of moons to tolerate Squirrelpaw.

It takes Crowpaw a heartbeat to fall in love with Leafpaw.

He tries to talk himself out of it at first, but after once, he recognizes the feeling far too quickly. She is not strong or lean, her eyes are not the colour of jay’s feathers, and she does not have to earn his trust. She is small like Squirrelpaw, plump from a less strenuous lifestyle, tabby-brown contrasted with her sister’s raging red. Her amber eyes are like green-leaf air: warm, unassuming,  _ intoxicating _ .

She is a medicine cat apprentice, and he backs away as quickly as possible.

He is making a mistake, a mistake far worse than he ever did with Feathertail, but with that mistake comes a realization. The beast in his chest was not dead. It was asleep.

They make the journey.

He avoids Leafpaw’s gaze in the crowd as he asks to be named for Feathertail.  _ Don’t dishonour her memory, you foxheart, _ he orders himself. No matter how harsh he words it, his gaze keeps sliding over to her. He hates himself for it.

WindClan is settling in, and Tallstar is dying.

Firestar declares that Onewhisker is the true leader of WindClan, and incomprehensibly, Brambleclaw backs him up. Crowfeather looks at his mentor, the one who always demanded so much, and sees a final demand— _ Support me in this. _ He looks at his mother and sees her choice, but she does not decide for him now; he is a warrior. He feels an odd power buzzing in his paws, of growing up, perhaps, but now too of being  _ StarClan’s Chosen One _ . His Clanmates hold new respect in their gazes.

He looks at Brambleclaw, the tom he hated to follow, the tom who seemed more preoccupied with giving orders than considering them… Finally, he looks at Firestar.  _ Brambleclaw is a furball, but Firestar taught him integrity. _ Firestar, whose pelt is as red as the evening sun. Whose gaze is as unassuming and warm as Leafpaw’s.  _ No! _

He turns to Onewhisker.

Battle follows shortly. WindClan is being torn clean down the middle, and he is afraid for his Clan. He looks at Onewhisker, who seems very young all of a sudden, and wonders if he made the right choice. He knows the tom does not have the same blazing ambition in his chest that his mentor does, and thinks it will hurt him in this battle; he must be certain of his right to lead.

StarClan decides for Onewhisker.

Crowfeather is occupied.

Leafpool falls.

He catches her.

It feels like  _ he  _ is tearing in two; bluejays, green-leaf air, listening, running, torrential waterfalls, civil wars, beasts,  _ loss _ … A green-leaf storm rages between them for many heartbeats.

The beast in his chest tears free of every constraint he’s put on it and—

“Don’t you know how I feel about you?”

Leafpool is horrified, but he is beyond caring. It is madness anew, and he cannot breathe as he hauls her back onto the grass. The battle rages around them. They have moved away from the cliff, but he is still on the brink, waiting, breathless.

She says that he  _ cannot _ love her, but he is well-versed in a love that cannot be, and he knows better than to try to resist it. They’re becoming one and the same, he and the beast, as he thinks savagely, jealously, that he  _ deserves _ happiness! Deserves to be loved too, to escape the tragedy that sweeps him off his paws at every turn, and deserves  _ her _ . She deserves him.

And as her Clanmates hurry her away, he sees it in her gaze too. He turns, leaving her, which has never felt acceptable before, but knows this time that he will see her again, and they will no longer be WindClan and ThunderClan, nor will they be warrior and medicine cat. They will be Crowfeather and Leafpool, and they will love each other more than anything. He is certain of it.

They run into the night.

They love each other, they are  _ together _ , together at last, and he cannot believe she is real. She turns to him with starlight in her gaze and presses her muzzle to his. He waits until she is asleep, and weeps with the relief of requited love. He will treasure her like nothing else, he vows. They will not repeat history. They receive the news from the peaceful badger.

His heart thuds to a stop when Leafpool looks at him, horror in her green-leaf gaze again. He cannot comfort her. She says she must go back. He agrees and it is a  _ lie _ , a  _ lie _ , and the beast in his chest screams.

They have the news; they march toward a land of beasts that threaten savagery and gore. He watches her race ahead and thinks _ I will lose her tonight. _ He couldn’t protect Feathertail, and he can’t protect Leafpool.  _ I won’t live without her, _ he vows. Even if StarClan has marked her to die, he will go with her.

Squirrelflight is lying outside the nursery, and fear pierces his heart when he sees her—his travelling companion. It is nothing compared to Leafpool’s terror. She races to her sister’s side, the beautiful, loving fool that she is. A badger looms nearby, raising its paw to snap her neck.

Crowfeather puts himself in front, summoning every move that Mudclaw drilled into him, every lesson he learned from a thousand pawsteps in travelling, all the certainty that he cannot live without her that fills him—he scores his claws across its eyes, a cry of all that he will lose tonight breaking from his throat.

She pays him no mind. She is occupied with her sister. He tears his gaze away and forces himself to scan the clearing for badgers that might attack her—he will never curl around her again, she will never meet his gaze with starlight brimming in hers, but he will protect her, one more time.

Leafpool disappears into the nursery and he can already smell the rank of another badger. He throws himself in behind her, snapping and slashing at it until it lumbers out. His heart cracks when once more, she doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“Call me if you need me,” he rasps.

_ You need me, _ the beast in his chest echoes.

It— _ he _ is wrong, and he knows it when she finds Cinderpelt dead and turns to him for comfort that he cannot offer. It is his fault; he convinced her to run away.

“Your heart lies here. Not with me. It was never truly with me,” whatever is left of Crowfeather that the beast has not torn apart in madness tells her.

He gazes deep into her eyes, wishing so desperately that he is wrong. There is still time, surely? If all those she cares about are dead, then what is there left for her in ThunderClan? It is a dirty, mad, jealous thought that he attributes to the beast. The line between them has blurred.

He is not wrong. Her eyes are wide, and they say  _ I love you. But not enough. _

If he can comfort himself at all— _ A poultice on a slashed throat,  _ he thinks—it will be with the knowledge that she could never love him enough, anyway. His love is as gaping, hungry, vast as the sun-drown place, and she has not even  _ seen  _ it. She cannot fathom its sheer  _ desideratum _ .

His Clanmates return to sweep him away, and he breathes in the new-leaf air. He has lost the respect he once had; they know what is going on the heartbeat they catch him staring at Leafpool. He cannot bring himself to care.

As he is ushered back to camp— _ Away from her! _ the beast roars.  _ Don’t leave her! _ —Nightcloud falls into step with him. He looks at her hollowly, and her yellow gaze is a little curious. A little judgemental. A little disgusted. That is WindClan, well enough, he thinks. That is expected.

He looks away and feels the beast in his chest grow hungry. It doesn’t wither this time, without her love to buoy him. It turns inward. It sees the unfurling green-leaf blooms that Leafpool nurtured in his heart, and opens its jaws. His heart twists. It will eat him alive, if he lets it, he knows.

Nightcloud doesn’t ask how he’s feeling. That is expected, he thinks. His Clanmates are silent when they patrol with him. Nightcloud is too… but a different kind of silence, like she is waiting for him. His Clanmates shut him out. Nightcloud does not seem interested in nurturing him. Her eyes are yellow, like a leaf-bare, full moon hanging low in the sky. Her body is wiry, wound tight and packed with muscle. Nothing sparks in his chest when he looks at her, but he wonders if that might be for the best. The beast hasn’t been feeding on him as much, lately. She waits as it withers and dies.

When he brushes his pelt with hers, she doesn’t pull away. Their Clanmates don’t…  _ soften _ , exactly, but he sees less flint in their gazes when he meets them. He has a WindClan mate. He has a WindClan son. He is miserable, he hates himself, he lingers by the ThunderClan border. Madness with no target, utterly directionless need. He suffers in silence.

That is expected.


	7. STORGE

**VII. STORGE**

From the moment he is born, Breezepelt can tell his family is not like those of his denmates. His father hardly ever visits, and when he does, the tension is so thick he could claw through it. Nightcloud tells him that Crowfeather is very busy and that he loves them, even when he can’t be there. Breezekit nods solemnly, but he’s smart enough that he can read between the li(n)es.

He and Nightcloud can make their own family, she tells him, later. They don’t need Crowfeather to be happy, she insists.

But even as she says it, he can feel the yearning she has for the smoky grey tom. It’s heavy in the air. Breezekit is not a dreamer—not anymore—if anything, he is a realist. It’s then when he realizes Crowfeather will never love Nightcloud the way she dreams of. 

(Inwardly, he scoffs at all of her ideals, but he realizes later, much later, that they had fallen into the same trap.)

He is so much like Nightcloud, he is constantly told. They share the same appearance, the same loyalty, the same fierceness. He cherishes everything that makes him like Nightcloud and separates him from Crowfeather.

(He _likes_ to think he is different than she is when it comes to Crowfeather, but when everything is said and done, he _understands_.)

On the night before his apprentice ceremony, Breezekit’s chest seizes up for the first time. He doesn’t understand why. All of a sudden, he can’t breathe, and can’t speak. He tries to talk but the words won’t come out right. He wants to cry, wants to break down because nothing feels _right—_

Nightcloud understands. She begins to groom his pelt, murmurs gently in his ear, “Crowfeather will be there. I’ll make sure he is. He’ll be so proud of you.”

She holds him close. His breathing calms again; he’s no longer fighting not to break down in tears. “Okay,” he whispers, and he has to believe her, doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t even have the fight to protest Nightcloud’s cleaning.

Crowfeather almost _doesn’t_ come to the ceremony. Onestar has just finished naming his mentor: it is Whitetail, the leader’s mate. Breezepaw’s not sure if it counts, in the end. His father comes in with a sizable rabbit hanging from his jaws. He strides to the fresh-kill pile, drops it with a thump before turning his stormy blue gaze on Breezepaw.

(Everybody notices his tardy entrance, but nobody will say a word about it. Nightcloud does, later, and all of WindClan hears the argument.)

When his name is cheered, Breezepaw can see his father’s lips moving with the others, ever-so-slightly. It’s more than he had expected, but it’s not enough; Crowfeather’s eyes are carefully blank. It’s out of obligation, not out of pride.

After the ceremony, Breezepaw goes to Crowfeather first. He tells himself that maybe he will have a valid reason. That he never meant to come so late. “The rabbit’s for you,” is all he is told, in that gruff way Crowfeather has. No congratulations is exchanged between them. _He isn’t proud of you_ , says Breezepaw’s head.

Nightcloud sees the whole thing happen, and though her eyes are burning with an anger only a mother can have, all she says to Crowfeather is, “Be proud of your son.”

She looks at Breezepaw and her eyes say, _I’m sorry._

He does eat the rabbit, before Whitetail takes him out of camp, but it tastes like dust and rot. His eyes sting. He can’t stomach more than a few bites and has to abandon his meal to go to the dirt-place.

Breezepaw gives the rabbit to his denmates, in the end. He passes it off as nerves, and they act like they believe him, even though he’s sure they all know the real reason. Rabbit is never his first choice again.

Since Crowfeather and Whitetail are mentoring each other’s kits, he and Heatherpaw are forced into many training sessions together. He’s never spent so much time in the older apprentice’s company before, and steels himself for the awkward questions she never asks. He comes to several realizations.

One. Heatherpaw is not as delicate in battle as he had thought. She cuts straight to the point and doesn’t deal with his messy maneuvers. He gets battered to the ground within seconds for the first moon. He tells her that he’s letting her win, but everyone knows better.

(Whitetail looks sympathetic, but Crowfeather keeps telling Heatherpaw to go again. He insists Breezepaw needs the practice and that it will make him stronger.)

Two. Heatherpaw is radiant. She is full of energy and brilliance. It’s contagious, and might have even made him laugh a few times. Breezepaw is not good with feelings. He won’t call her pretty or anything of the sort, and tells this to her face every chance he can.

(Only later does he realize that this is how Crowfeather communicates, too. He is scathing and bitter and Breezepaw hates that they are even a _shred_ similar.)

Three. She’s fun to provoke. Except when he goes too far (sorry-not-sorry, Jaypaw) and she is _vicious_ in her defense _._ He doesn’t like when she gets on him about Stormkit and Creekkit. She gets under his skin like nothing else does. She doesn’t like him, and makes sure to tell him to his face every chance she can.

Being near her makes him bold, like he can do anything. Breezepaw feels brave and unlimited. Heatherpaw doesn’t appreciate when he shows off for her. He doesn’t understand.

In the tunnels, Breezepaw can’t stop thinking about how his father was sent on a hero’s journey to the sun-drown place when he was this age, to save all of the clans, and how his own rescue seems so _small_ in comparison.

He feels the Clan’s expectation to be as accomplished as Crowfeather is, but at the same time he loathes the thought of being compared to his father at all.

But then the tunnels are flooding, and they have to find the kits, and he doesn’t have time to think. He hates himself for comparing again; everybody tells him he’s his own cat. And well—he shouldn’t worry about his own problems when Gorsetail and Beechfur are frantic about their kits.

Nightcloud descends upon him with fury when they return soaked in mud and water, but her anger turns to relief once she sees he’s come out with only a few scratches.

“I was so worried,” she tells him, purring. “I didn’t know if you were going to be alright.”

Breezepaw brushes her off—he’s an apprentice now: apprentices don’t get worried over by their mothers—but inside he’s positively glowing. He pretends not to notice his father watching from a distance.

Hollyleaf reveals her secret at the Gathering. Breezepelt has siblings, now, in ThunderClan. He loathes Crowfeather, sees the betrayal in Nightcloud’s eyes as she whispers, “Why?”

He confronts Crowfeather in the chaos—demands to know why he would have kits with a ThunderClan medicine cat of all cats. Why he would leave his clan for her, however briefly.

Crowfeather meets his gaze evenly. “Would you run away for Heathertail, even if she were a medicine cat in a different clan?” And then he’s gone, disappeared into the crowd again.

“That’s _not_ the same,” Breezepelt growls after him, but it’s useless: Crowfeather is beyond listening range.

But it’s not completely the truth. In his heart, Breezepelt thinks that he would do exactly the same thing Crowfeather had.

**STORGE**

Before Breezepelt asks Heathertail to be his mate, he goes to Nightcloud for advice.

She tells him to be courteous towards Heathertail: to spend time with his family when he has one, to provide for them. The last piece of advice Nightcloud tells him very solemnly. “Be unwaveringly devoted to your family.”

It doesn’t take a smart cat to figure out what she’s referring to, and Breezepelt nods.

It’s a very traditional concept in WindClan, to ask for the family’s acceptance of their kit’s significant other, before they become mates, but Breezepelt asks only Nightcloud for her blessing.

(He doesn’t feel as though Crowfeather deserves that right, really—he had never really been part of his and Nightcloud’s family, nor had he made an effort to do so.)

His mother observes him very carefully. “Do the nightmares still come?” She words it very intentionally, her amber gaze thoughtful.

(Once, Breezepelt remembers, Nightcloud was the only cat who could reassure him.)

He pauses, looks at her. “I get them sometimes,” he admits. “They’re better now, though. Heathertail has been helping me with them.”

Nightcloud’s eyes flash with something akin to grief—they both know now that he is no longer the same kitten he was. But she simply nods, looks relieved amidst her own loss, and says for the both of them, “I accept her. Breezepelt, you’re going to be alright.”

Breezepelt doesn’t think he will be, but then Heathertail tells him yes.

**STORGE**

They have been mates for several wonderful (if sometimes rocky) moons when Heathertail brings up the inevitable question.

“Someday,” she says, “would you want to have kits?”

Breezepelt goes silent. He tenses; his first instinct is to say _no_ and never bring up the topic again. He wouldn’t be a good father, he thinks. What kind of cat would want to have a father who had, in the end, sided with the Place of No Stars anyways? 

A traitor for a father, he muses bitterly, the son of Crowfeather, and the half-brother of three half-ThunderClan cats.

_Following in his father’s footsteps,_ his mind tells cheerfully. _You’re the forgotten son; you’re not part of a prophecy, and certainly no hero._

But Heathertail’s still waiting for an answer, and she looks hopeful. So, he says, “I don’t know.”

She blinks at him as if she can sense his inner turmoil, although by now she surely recognizes the root of the problem. “Breezepelt,” she says carefully, “by being worried about not being a good father, you’re already proving that you’re moons ahead of Crowfeather.” Heathertail sighs. “If you can’t get it into your head now that you’re not destined to make Crowfeather’s mistakes, you _never_ will.”

Breezepelt says nothing, only lowers his head. But he agrees to a compromise, at least: they won’t try for kits yet, but if it happens, they will be prepared to love them.

Eventually, Brindlekit and Smokekit are born, moons later, and he cannot fathom how Crowfeather would want to neglect his own mate and kit.

Heathertail tells him, “Breezepelt, you’re going to be alright.”


	8. AGAPE

**VIII. AGAPE**

Tallkit does not remember when he learns faith. It is the first thing a WindClan kit learns, even before they’re kitted, he thinks. He nestles closer to Palebird in the nursery. Her fur is cold and he shivers, pressing himself to her to avoid the chilly leaf-bare air.

The stars were dazzling tonight.

Palebird pointed out her mother’s star to him with her tail-tip earlier that night. She was in that mood again, the one in between happy and sad, and she was talking about Finchkit. She points at the brightest star, that lies across the sky from the moon, and she tells him about his sister. He doesn’t say it, but he can feel the loss sometimes too. Like there should be another body at Palebird’s belly on cold leaf-bare nights.

He likes sleeping outside, he decides, even if it is cold. They’re closer to the moors, and closer to the stars. He knows that the stars are StarClan warriors—they are called _Star_ Clan, after all—but he thinks the wind is some of StarClan too. When he is under the wide-open sky, so enormous and free, he feels StarClan in the wind and in the sunlight.

When Sandgorse tries to show him to tunnel, he feels crushingly alone in the earth. He is like a body that the medicine cat forgot to make sure was actually dead before they buried. He runs back to Palebird and wishes Finchkit was there to be the perfect tunneler’s kit that Sandgorse wants.

Tallkit is very very young when he learns that he admires different things in cats than his Clanmates. Namely, he admires Barkkit’s chestnut fur, his lean moorrunner form, and his gentleness. He sees the way Shrewkit’s eyes shine as they watch Doekit, Stagkit, and Ryekit become apprentices, and the way they linger on Ryekit’s flicking tail and tabby pelt. He wonders if two toms can be together in the same way as a mother and a father. Maybe it’s just Barkkit, he thinks. Stagkit is certainly preening and big-headed, and Tallkit is perfectly fine with him finally leaving the nursery.

Tallkit is almost an apprentice when he learns anger. Shrewkit has learned to be cruel, and Tallkit doesn’t quite understand why. Boredom, or protectiveness of Barkkit, maybe, but Tallkit doesn’t feel inclined to pick out Shrewkit’s motivations. He just feels stung and upset. Even if he hates tunneling, Shrewkit is also insulting Palebird, Sandgorse, and many other Clanmates. Tallkit’s claws grip the earth but he reminds himself that WindClan cats don’t lash out.

Tallpaw is made an apprentice to Dawnstripe, not Woollytail. He feels a prick of failure at the way Sandgorse’s temper flares, but mostly an avalanche of relief. StarClan must be looking out for him. Making sure they can keep an eye on him under the open sky, and not let him disappear into the earth before he’s really dead. There is sadness mixed in, that day; Barkpaw disappears into Hawkheart’s den. Tallpaw watches him go and feels his heart fall, more disappointment than he felt from not being apprenticed to a tunneler. He’ll put it aside; that’s the WindClan way.

He feels almost greedy, being allowed out onto the moor every day. They go to the high-moor, where he can see so much world that his breath is whisked away. How can so much exist? He feels disappointment again, thinking he’ll never see it. WindClan cats are satisfied with what they have, he reminds himself. He still feels restless that night, though; what he once considered unimaginably big has quickly shrunk down to a tightly-bordered world of predictable swathes of land. There is still wanderlust in his paws, thinking of the high-moor and what lies beyond.

Tallpaw learns terror when the tunnel floods. All his worst fears about learning tunnel-safety are coming true; there is nothing down here except silence and death, and he will be buried alive. But he isn’t. He survives, gulps the air, feels his heart flutter as he stares up into the sky with wide eyes, and tries to be satisfied knowing that even in the seemingly-small territory, he is freer out there than he would be underground.

Sandgorse blames him when Heatherstar shuts down the tunnel. He doesn’t say much, but the way his lips draw back a whisker and his eyes glitter, Tallpaw knows he’s disappointed his father again. Better a disappointment than a dead cat, he thinks. Sparrow understands him. The rogue is quiet and gentle and Tallpaw is reminded of Barkpaw. Sparrow’s too much older for him to get any ideas, but Tallpaw finds solace in him anyway. There are always she-cats and toms in WindClan, but maybe rogues live differently, he thinks. They can travel beyond the high-moor, see things up close instead of just from Outlook Rock. He wants to ask Sparrow a thousand questions about the world outside WindClan, but he doesn’t want to be a pest. WindClan cats don’t badger their elders, he reminds himself.

Tallpaw learns guilt, searing, choking guilt when Shrewpaw yowls with grief over his mother’s body. Shrewpaw turns his furious gaze on Tallpaw, and for a faltering moment, Tallpaw thinks this is unfair. Shrewpaw is as WindClan as Tallpaw is; he isn’t allowed to blame Tallpaw openly. That is not the WindClan way; he is supposed to grieve and rage silently, and trust that Tallpaw will punish himself. But Shrewpaw doesn’t follow those unspoken rules.

WindClan is still reeling from the loss when Sandgorse is gone.

Sparrow kept badgering him, damn him. Sparrow wanted to see the tunnel. Sparrow wanted to tour the lives of WindClan cats, wanted to get a little taste, and Sandgorse sacrificed his life just to answer the rogue’s pestering. Tallpaw’s rage surges beneath his pelt, and when he meets Shrewpaw’s eyes, for the barest of heartbeats, he understands exactly what the other tom felt. He cannot trust Sparrow’s conscience, not when Sparrow’s conscience wasn’t enough to stop the rogue from dragging Tallpaw’s father underground and leaving him to die, so he must punish Sparrow himself.

He must uphold Sandgorse’s legacy. His father died thinking his son was a disappointment; Tallpaw needs to make it up to him. Either by dying and explaining himself to him in StarClan, or by honouring his father’s memory. He must tunnel. Even if he is sealed underground, his spirit will beg his father’s forgiveness. Heatherstar denies him, and he hates her in a blinding flash of red rage. WindClan cats don’t lash out, he reminds himself. But that is not what Shrewpaw did. That is not what he intends for Sparrow.

Shrewpaw mocks his father. Palebird betrays him. Tallpaw’s rage boils over, and he is named Talltail. Shrewclaw’s taunting doesn’t let up, and the night sky feels very small, all of a sudden. He looks up at StarClan and wonders how they let that happen. Sparrow has escaped him.

He decides this is his destiny. Sandgorse wants revenge, and Talltail must honour his father. Heatherstar doesn’t blink when he tells her he needs to leave. Barkface lets him go. His gaze lingers on his kithood friend, the tom who made him think he might love differently, and silently hopes he might ask him to stay, for him. He doesn’t, and Talltail doesn’t look back.

Talltail realizes he must look out for himself when he crosses the border. There will be no mentor, or denmates, or patrol to dig him out of trouble. It is time for every cat to take accountability, he thinks. No cat will be responsible for another.

He immediately changes his mind when he sees a brute of a dog attacking a ginger tom. A kittypet, he thinks. Well, just this once. He launches himself into the dog’s side, and remembers too late that he will have to heal himself if he is hurt. But his strikes land hard and true, and the dog is not used to a cat that bites back, and soon he sends it running with its tail between its legs.

The tom is delighted, and Talltail finds himself unexpectedly flustered. Jake is his name, and Talltail tells himself that the tom is only this bright and optimistic because he has never faced true suffering. Still, this _Jake_ ’s charm is infectious, and Talltail already feels himself tipping toward… admiration, he tells himself.

He eats a poisoned rat and decides this idea of looking out for himself is possibly a bit unwise. Jake’s Twolegs fix him, and much as it pains him, he concedes that he needed to be saved. Jake brightly says that they’re even. Talltail demands to know how to get out of this Twolegs’ den; Jake is already too charming, and Talltail knows he cannot stick with him for too long or he might not want to continue at all. Jake offers another trade; if he helps Talltail escape, Talltail must take him along.

He feels a moment of doubt. What will Jake think of his intentions toward Sparrow? But it is a fair deal, and the Twolegs keep trying to pick him up, so he agrees to the ginger kittypet’s plan. They set out the next morning, and Talltail remembers how much he missed the sound of another cat’s voice. Jake is the most perplexing mix of brilliant and foolish, wise and naive that Talltail has ever encountered. He is the least WindClan cat Talltail can imagine.

It is another cold leaf-bare night under a bush for Talltail, but Jake must not be used to the chill, because he drops his bulk practically on top of Talltail. Talltail yelps at the sudden warmth and the ginger tail that drops carelessly over his flank, but falls asleep faster than he has in moons. He doesn’t dream. _This is not the WindClan way, to cuddle up to a stranger,_ is what he thinks as his consciousness ebbs. Then finally, when he is warm and the crickets are lulling him into darkness, he thinks, _Maybe the WindClan way isn’t the best way._

They find the rogues, and Talltail finds his anger. It is buried, a cold and dead thing deep in the earth, but it flares to life when Talltail forces himself to think of how his father choked underground, crushed by stones and by the carelessness of Sparrow. Sparrow is so unsuspecting. Things Talltail has not felt in moons rise to the surface; disgust, rage, grief. Sparrow must pay, he tells himself.

Jake learns what Talltail is planning, and urges him to think again. Talltail looks into the green eyes of his friend, this tom who has become so important in such little time, and tells himself that he doesn’t care what Jake thinks. It is a poor lie, but he cannot question himself now. That is not the WindClan way.

Sparrow nears the edge of the cliff. Talltail tries to replace thoughts of Jake’s disappointment with memories of his father’s disappointment. Talltail must honour his legacy. He must have revenge, he must make Sparrow pay, and he must—Sandgorse sacrificed himself?

That is not the WindClan way, he thinks.

That is not the WindClan way—his father would not die for some rogue. His father wouldn’t give himself up for another—his father didn’t give his own dreams up for Talltail’s happiness. Why would Sandgorse sacrifice himself for a rogue he didn’t know when he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his own expectations for his son to let that son be happy? A torrent of his anger with Sandgorse, his deep-seated insecurity and hate for himself explodes through him, and he is so disoriented that he hardly notices when Sparrow slips.

The tom is falling, and the thunderpath will kill him. Talltail should back away in case he falls too, he knows. He should preserve himself, the WindClan way—but Sandgorse saved Sparrow, Jake helped Talltail, Shrewclaw raged at him, Jake comforted him, he loved Jake in very not-WindClan ways. Choice yawns in front of him, the choice between the world and his own fragile body.

Talltail throws himself after the rogue.

They pad back together, and the way Jake’s eyes light up with relief and gratitude makes Talltail a little weaker with his own relief. Jake tells him he made the right choice, and Talltail presses his pelt again Jake’s. It is too forward of him, maybe, but that was in WindClan, and the world is wider than WindClan. Jake doesn’t think it’s too forward. Jake thinks he made the right choice, Jake believes in him and saved him and Talltail is in love.

He wonders if they could actually manage together. Looking out for each other, out in the wide world. Exploring. But Jake wants home, and finally, Talltail admits to himself that he misses WindClan too.

The rogues tell them they’re not coming back, and Talltail understands perfectly; impermanent love is the only kind of love, really, he thinks. No life is eternal; even StarClan warriors will fade from the sky one day. There is joy to be found in them anyway.

He found joy in Jake, and learned from his wise, foolish ginger tom. They part, and Talltail feels aching loss mixed in with the love and warmth of their time together. It is the world’s way, he decides, thinking of his mother’s complicated combination of grief and happiness when she thinks of Finchkit. Loss is inevitable, but that does not mean they were better off not having loved. Love is inevitable.

He returns, and finds an abundance of love. Complicated love, love mixed with sorrow and old wounds and guilt, but he thinks it is possible for love to grow there all the same. He watches his half-siblings grow and adores them like his own. He doesn’t think he’ll have kits, but he is certain is life is full of enough without them.

He mentors Deadpaw, the clever, bright, kind kit with the twisted paw. He is blown away that one so young could understand so much quicker than he had how to find joy in the whole world. His optimism and unfaltering cheer are inspiring. They are a memory of Jake, and Talltail thinks of him often.

Heatherstar makes him deputy, and Talltail worries that she is trying to apologize for forbidding him from training as a tunneler. She assures him that she isn’t, and that she thinks he is the best cat for the job. He is surprised to find that she might be right, even though he himself wouldn’t have guessed it. Green-cough takes her in the middle of a night, and Barkface brings Talltail the news with a drooping tail. Talltail sits vigil for her and thinks of her fondly. She has taught him things that he hopes to use in his own leadership, he decides. She was a wise leader for WindClan, even if she did make mistakes.

During his nine lives ceremony, he sees Sandgorse at last. He is almost surprised at the peace radiating off the tom. He was a difficult father, Talltail thinks. The life is for forgiveness, and so Tallstar forgives Sandgorse’s rough edges. The peace in his father’s eyes spread to Tallstar, and he wakes up feeling ready to face his Clan. The territory seems larger now that he must keep it safe, clear of danger, and patrolled. His paws no longer tingle with wanderlust.

Along with this new peace, he feels satisfaction. He quietly learns the quirks of his Clan, the way his example spreads down to the apprentices, and the power he wields. He stands atop the Great Rock at a Gathering, looking down at the faces of cats he does not know, and feels connected to them. He doesn’t _need_ to know them, not really.

He knows enough to acknowledge that they grow hungry and need to eat, that they feel grief at loss, that they can look out for each other and love unselfishly. They need to survive. Sometimes these needs grow twisted, grasping for things unearned and for words to fill a hole in their hearts. A hulking tom deep in the forest writes his name in blood and power.

Tallstar takes his Clan and flees; their lives are more important than any territory. They shelter, and he waits for a sign from StarClan. WindClan will survive; that is their way. He never loses hope, but the dying ember of it blazes back up when a ginger shadow blocks the sunlight filtering into the tunnel.

His mouth forms the name, then he catches himself. The tom is young, bright-eyed with a sober determination that Tallstar doesn’t remember. He calls himself Fireheart, and introduces his companion as Graystripe. Tallstar doesn’t care much for their names; he is just relieved in a torrential flood of kept promises that WindClan will survive. They return to the territory, and Tallstar keeps his eye on this Fireheart. He almost calls him son, when Fireheart comes to him, trying to prevent a war. He wonders if that’s possible, remembering his old certainty that he wouldn’t have kits. Whether or not it is, he loves Fireheart the same.

Barkface understands it, and he finds the same uncomplicated peace in the other tom’s company that he did as a kit. They grow old together, misty-eyed and nostalgic. Barkface lets slip ‘youngsters’ in one of their long talks, and they share a purr and acknowledge that a new generation for WindClan is rising.

As Tallstar reaches the new territory, finding a young tom’s joy in new worlds to explore, he thinks this is a good place to stop and rest forever. The lake is so blue, the grass so green, and the moor alive with so much prey, that Tallstar knows they have found their place. There is trouble brewing again, and he wishes he could explain to his Clanmates how to let go of it all and be satisfied and at peace with each other. It cannot really be put into words, though, he thinks. Maybe it’s just something they have to learn on their own.

He gives a creaky sigh, and relaxes when Firestar pokes his head through the bushes. Brambleclaw is with him, and Tallstar wonders if Brambleclaw will be another fiery, reckless deputy. He regrets Mudclaw’s appointment; the tom has a lot to learn before he can take care of a Clan. He remembers how he was surprised to learn that Heatherstar was right to have faith in him as a leader, even though he didn’t expect it himself. Mudclaw expects it.

He thinks of his whole Clan with love, and wonders who is the closest to being able to offer them the utterly selfless devotion of a leader. Perhaps he should offer the chance to a younger tom. Yes, Onewhisker. He thinks of Gorsepaw with an ache of sadness. Onewhisker knows sorrow, and he is respected enough. Tallstar’s strength flags, and he murmurs his choice to Jake’s son. He doesn’t have absolute certainty in the decision, but he knows that WindClan will persevere. That is the WindClan way, he thinks with a last rusty purr. He blinks at Firestar, and for a heartbeat it’s as if the tom’s shadow has turned into his father. Then he closes his eyes again and doesn’t open them.

Jake is there, and Tallstar follows him up into the wide-open sky.

“One more adventure,” Jake says, with star-bright eyes. Tallstar’s peace and satisfaction are joined by yet more love. He didn’t think there was space in his heart, but looking down at his Clan as he joins his friend among the stars, he knows there will be no end to the amount of admiration, joy, and fondness he finds in each and every one of them. It is inevitable. ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day!


End file.
